


The Place You Need to Reach

by clutzycricket



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Doctor Strange (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Discussion of possible rape, Dual Timeline, F/M, Gothic Literature Love Letter, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, author promises she has the fic completed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket
Summary: In December 1932, Dr. Stephen Strange meets cinema darling Rhaenys Targaryen.In April 1939, journeyman sorcerer Stephen Strange goes to Los Angeles to solve a mystery- and find out who is leaving a trail of burnt bodies.





	1. Presume Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fun mix of real history and fictional characters and interactions- obviously the ASOIAF and MCU characters are fictional, but a lot of this is anchored in real facts and people! Title is from Hozier's "Arsonist's Lullaby".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Hound of the Baskervilles"

_Irene Martell was a starlet whose own history was as over-the-top as any publicist could dream- Daughter of the Devil Earl of Dragonstone, she survived the Titanic when she was four. Then came to America to be celebrated as a singer and stage actress when she was eighteen. Then got picked to be one of the few people of actual Middle Eastern ancestry to be a Hollywood star. Openly. (Valentino, who? Theda Bara? Don't know her.) And she was paired against Hollywood legends like Clark Gable and Cary Grant. Seriously. Gable actually insisted on working with her at least once, and even after the code, she managed to keep busy._

 

_...Seriously, this woman is a legend, and we stan._

 

\- “Irene Martell”, episode from the Podcast Popcorn and Prozac

~

 

**_ December 1932 _ **

 

 

Stephen Strange thought Myranda Royce was quite possibly the most irritating woman he had ever met. Though that might be the fact that he was fairly certain he had been unceremoniously shoved on her, like an unwanted pest...  
After one too many curt answers, she clearly set about for someone new to irritate him, prowling like a panther in her too-pink gown. “You haven’t met the Sultana yet, have you? She’s not actually a Sultana, like you aren’t a Sheikh, but you need nicknames to keep everyone straight, and her father has some English title and her mother’s family is apparently older than dirt. And she’s… well. She’s a sweetheart, amid the nicknaming qualities.”  
There was an actual glimmer of humor under the glaze of alcohol in her eyes, and he snorted.  
“And I need someone who won’t be driven to murder me?” he asked.  
“Pity you didn’t show that humor earlier,” Myranda said, heading for the corner of the room.  
“I am much more charming when I don’t have a surgery fairly early the next day,” he pointed out. He'd pointed it out when he was escorted to the party under the unfortunately inflexible (to him, at least) rules of office politics and one of the trustees hosting it. Something about the stars of the hospital and the stars of the theatrical world.

Or, more likely, just that someone wanted to see him squirm. He had a well earned reputation for not being the most tolerant of his coworker's foibles. Or social gatherings.

The woman in question was idly flipping through a book, occasionally looking up at a question that needed answering, before seeing Myranda dragging him over and raising an eyebrow. She said something to the man behind her, who laughed and walked away. The small, middle-aged woman sitting on the couch’s arm with a tumbler of something clear stayed.

He raised an eyebrow at Irene Martell, who was as small and delicate as she looked on screen against Clark Gable or Sessue Hayakawa. Not that he paid much attention to those things.

“Sultana… have you met our newest victim?” Myranda asked, before looking around. “You’re not drinking?”

Irene did not look up from her book, shoulders a bit tense. “Myranda...”

“Irene here is our last bastion of sobriety,” said the other woman. “It would be irritating, if she spoke enough for us to notice her.” There was something vaguely familiar about her, though she wasn’t part of the on-screen set, he thought.

“It isn’t as if any of you would listen,” Irene Martell said, looking up. Her eyes were a vaguely eerie violet color, heavily lashed and seeming to take up half her face. Which was as delicate as the rest of her, with a faintly hooked nose and a faintly freckled complexion bit darker than his own. The voice, however, was low and smoky, with an upper class British accent, and exactly as it sounded in film. Though the “And I try not to be pointless.” Her mouth turned up a bit. “Except professionally, of course, Dot, I know.”

“Irene Martell, at least in a professional setting,” she added to him, that slight turn to her mouth slowly forming a wicked smile that revealed a dimple.

“Her real name is long and hard to say when you have some bubbly,” Myranda said, smirking. Having explained in detail about immigration officials with unfortunate senses of humor after jokes about his own name, he found himself in sympathy with Irene's pained expression.

“Lady Rhaenys Targaryen,” the third woman said, looking vaguely triumphant. “Daughter of some bigwig with his own island.”

“Doctor Stephen Strange,” he introduced himself, not quite trusting Myranda Royce. “And yes, I have heard all the jokes.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Irene- or Rhaenys, he supposed, said, looking with fondness at the oldest woman. “Dot tends to view everything as a challenge.” She settled her book against the cushions. He noticed with curiosity that it was some academic collection, something about Shakespeare. It wasn't, he told himself, that he thought movie stars superficial and more likely to choose magazines with their faces in them... but a party was an odd place to read it. “If you’d like, you can sit here and I’ll protect you from the clingy starlet types.”

“And who would protect me from you?” was out of his mouth before he thought about it.

People skills, he would eventually admit, were not his strong suit.

“Who said I had any designs on you?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “You look hard to miss, and I need someone to help keep busybodies from my couch. I’m going back to Hollywood next week, anyway. I’m filming Lady Sherlock now that I finished with Alla’s play.”

Dot snorted. “Shlock.”

“It’s not high art, but it’s shlock that pays the bills,” Irene said, ruefully. “And I do like working with Dancy. I need either a very brave producer or a very mad co-star to play a romantic lead there, even with the sharp-tongued Dorothy Parker on my side. Unless I want to go to my father with my hat in hand…” There was a faintly bitter twist to her mouth at that.

“You could always marry?” Myranda said, ignoring the annoyed looks the other two women gave her. “Or find a man to take care of you.”

“Ah, yes, the scandalous life of an actress seems like it would lead to a happy marriage,” she said, after a moment. “Ah, wait, the papers say otherwise. And I have my pride.” She turned to him. “Ignore us- Randa thinks I should focus more on the personal, and the argument is old enough neither of us tend to consider how it sounds to outsiders.” She gestured to the empty half of the couch, and he sat down, trying to ignore her relieved look.

“If you enjoy the work…” he shrugged.

She beamed. “Yes, true. There is also a few other projects that I think are interesting, including another project with planes, which is lovely.” She picked up the book. “I’m deeply curious about how this all will come together- there is...” She stopped herself, the glow of enthusiasm running up against politeness. Though he preferred enthusiasm, when the person knew what they were talking about. “There is apparently a great deal of controversy over a number of late Elizabethan plays. Some of them are mostly lost- The King of Tashkani is one of them, and there is apparently a rumor that it helped inspire Stoker for Dracula. There is a glorious scene left from someone's notes, and it was reprinted in this.”

“And someone is trying to recreate it?” he said, curious. He'd heard of worse ideas, he supposed.

“Cukor,” she smiled, seeming to forget her nervousness and warming to her subject. “How he was attached to it after A Bill of Divorcement... I'm not sure. Especially since I am about to film Lady Sherlock, which is such a light comedy the plot might actually vanish in a good breeze.” There was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Even if I am the cleverest character in the film. And my costar gets to play a very sensible Lady Watson, which is good. It's a terrible bore, making Watson stupid to make Holmes shine.”

“It shows they aren't able to write a clever enough Holmes to stand on his own merits,” Stephen had to agree.

“It is fun, though I do understand that some people just cannot understand fun,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“You think that flying is fun,” Myranda commented, wrinkling her nose.

“Hell, just get Nazimova to do you a proper movie,” Dot said, before shrugging. He twitched, having almost forgotten she was still here. “She'll delight in a serious concept from classical literature you'll find fun and the rest of us can pretend is high art and therefore we aren't meant to understand it.”

“And no Greek myths, my teacher was mad for them in school,” Myranda said, wrinkling her nose. “Irene, you have to know interesting ones.”

“I went to a very strict, very English boarding school,” Irene said, dryly. “And I have not been home in… years.” She gave Myranda a gentle smile after a moment. “Besides, I am rather terrified of what… most producers would do. I might trust Alla, yes, but the suits and priests will howl if I try to push a proper cast.”

“Brat,” Myranda said, gulping down her drink. “I’ve seen pictures of your brother, plus his letters, and if he’s any sort of sample, those asses with the eugenics movement are clearly the daft ones. Charming, good looking, rich, and he values monogamy?” She tapped the corner of her mouth. “...Why haven’t you introduced us?”

“Points for properly using daft, monogamy, and eugenics while tripping drunk,” Stephen murmured, just loudly enough Irene could hear. She raised an eyebrow without seeming annoyed.

He passed for straight Italian, most days- he had to thank Valentino for encouraging that bit of murkiness, he supposed. He was also careful about admitting that he could speak Spanish, because that lead to further assumptions, and he liked the idea of eventually being head of neurosurgery. Lady Rhaenys could not hide, though the title must help.

“You forgot the title- Viscount Summerhall and next Earl of Dragonstone do catch the eye,” she said, before turning to him. There was a spark of mischief as those enormous purple eyes focused on him. “Which hospital do you work at?”

Dot dragged Myranda off, and Stephen found himself distracted for a few pleasurable hours.

  
~

_**March 30th, 1939** _

  
  


The photographs were horrifying.

He could see the way the burns would have traveled, the way the victims would have contorted in pain. There were scraps of fabric left, bright cheery patterns stained with fluid.

“How many of these cases are there?” he asked.

“In this town? Maybe half a dozen,” Sofia said. The woman was a curator from... somewhere in Europe, who had come to them with this. Apparently, her coworker had been working with someone to steal an artifact from the museum her family ran, and had been found burned to death a few days after the theft. Since then, she'd been tracking the cases and following a similar trail of rumors, before running across a sorcerer who brought her here.“I received a cable on my way here, there was another one. It's gotten in the news as a case of spontaneous human combustion, but it left the port about a day after the last case, and was about halfway to its destination.”

“Where was that?” Wong asked, frowning at the photos. Maybe he actually did care about more than his books.

Well, before coming here, most people would have thought you only cared for your work, a voice that sounded annoyingly like Rhaenys rang in his head.

“Los Angeles,” Sofia said.

His grip, still not the best in good conditions, went completely out of his control, and the photograph tore.

“You know someone there?” Sofia asked, and Wong gave him a wary look.

His wedding ring was hidden under his gloves, but he could feel the bit of gold burning like a brand. “My wife, actually.”

“...Oh,” she said, “So I suppose you want to come with us, then?”

“That would be a good idea,” he said, shaking his head. Most of his fellow residents here knew about Rhaenys- there were apparently a number of film fans here, for some reason. Besides that, he was deeply suspicious about the Sarella Sand who occasionally buried themselves in the library. They looked strikingly similar in their eyes and expressions, and Rhaenys mentioned a cousin with the same name.

“You do know the area already,” Wong said dubiously. “And I do want to know exactly how you managed to convince someone to marry you.”

“Do you keep in touch?” Sofia asked, delicately.

“We write,” Stephen said. Well, he'd gotten Sarella to write for him, after she'd seen him scowling a hole through the paper. There wasn't a typewriter in the monastery.

He probably should ask Sarella if Rhaenys actually was her cousin before he went, but if he didn't have time, he'd save that for after his explanations to Rhaenys.

“Does she know...” Sofia looked around the library, where some of the books were floating, and a scroll and clay tablet seemed to be having a duel, until Wong scowled at them and they scurried back to their normal homes. “About all this?” Dr. Di Cosima seemed to be very interested in the books- or perhaps the books and the librarian. He grinned. Maybe if Wong and the good doctor were interested in each other, he could stop accusing Stephen of being shallow and possibly evil.

“Not exactly,” Stephen admitted. “She guessed parts of it, though.” It would have been hard not to, given the letters and Pangborn.

He just hoped she'd accept it, when they met face to face.

 


	2. Our Illusions Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title this time is from Sheridan Le Fanu.

_While a great deal of Classic Hollywood history focuses on the rivalries and love stories of the times, there is something to be said about the friendships of the times. The next few articles on this blog are therefore going to involve some of the more interesting stories of the times. Carole Lombard's friendships with Lucille Ball and Irene Martell famously spawned the sitcom I Love Lucy and the underpinnings of the recent movie Fireball, based on Lombard's life and connections. Irene Martell herself was known for being one of the most easygoing women in Hollywood, the Director's Darling known for her soft-spoken advice and steady demeanor. Which probably makes what happened all the more tragic..._

From “Friendship is Magic”, a series on the Film Darlings blog by Anita Holmberg, March 2018

 

_**April 1933** _

 

Rhaenys had found the cafe when she first came to New York, run by a middle-aged couple who took pity on the tired, lost soul who had blown in Christmas 1926 and never quite left. After she had gotten the job with Sennet, then graduated to bigger pictures, she still stopped in. And, thankfully, they never said a word to the press.

Possibly afraid that they’d be swarmed with picture-mad fans, unused to an actress in their quiet neighborhood. And while she liked meeting with people who liked what she did... the crowds seemed to press on her at times. Plus, Mya liked to grumble about the more… alarming letters she received. She seemed to think someone would steal her away and lock her in some room out of the Marquis de Sade's imagination. Stephen would probably be amused if she told him.

She should also point out that unless he wanted to show up on Photoplay, they might want to keep being discreet. Since they lived on opposite coasts, and most of their contact was through letters or the phone, this wasn't hard, but if the gossip columnists thought she was hiding anything...

Well, she thought wryly, it would probably be an unneeded boost to his vanity, until he got teased about it.

He strolled in, taking in the red-and-white check, the faintly dented-and-dinged air of the place, and quirked an eyebrow.

She tilted her head up and smiled, watching as he located her and strode over, ignoring Rachel, the owner’s thirteen year old daughter. Who she was studiously discouraging from the movie scene. She was by all accounts a good musician, she should focus on that.

“Hello, Stephen. Did you experiment on yourself?” she asked. “Rachel, dear, could we have two waters and a menu for my friend?”

“Did I…” he frowned at her, looking puzzled. Rachel gave her a grin and dropped off the menu.

“No problem, Miss M,” she said, before going back to what looked like her homework. “Shout when you’re ready?”

“You seem to have forgotten your manners,” she said, dryly. “The owners are friends of mine.”

“You consider everyone you say more than three words to a friend, and most of them don’t deserve it,” he said, pointedly. Serenei had been the same way when they were together, though Mya had been the one to grumble when Rhaenys agreed to go to dinner with that pretty artist man.

Which was why Mya was her right hand woman.

“That would be why I still write you,” she agreed, beaming up at him. “But they were kind when I first got here, and haven’t tried to use that to get things from me now.”

He shook his head. “One day someone will try to take advantage of you, and I will sit back and say I told you so.”

“No, you will be offended so much by their stupidity that you will drive them off in tears,” she predicted. “How did the consult you were doing today go?”

“Apparently telling someone that the surgery they want would be mindless butchery more likely to turn their loved one into a drooling dummy is considered tasteless,” he said, flippantly enough she suspected he was trying to amuse her. Or shock her. He seemed to be fine with either.

“Well, yes, if you phrase it that way,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Mind, I’ve heard less tactful phrasing, mostly when discussing my contract…”

“They are just trying to bully you,” he said, proving that his certainty of the world had clearly extended to cover her, and therefore they were, in fact, … something. “You’re far too talented to lose. Not to mention professional. She said to shout…”

“Well, they do rather own my life for the next year,” she said, forlornly. “And let me do it.”

Rachel walked over, clearly snooping and impatient to find out why she had brought someone to the diner. Which was fair, she supposed. It was hardly a regular occurrence- she certainly hadn't done it when she first came.  “Hey, Miss M. Is this a suit?”

“A doctor, actually,” he grinned. “I have far more sense. Can I get a cheeseburger?”

“The Meatball Irene, please, especially if your father is cooking?” Rhaenys asked. “I'm not certain how vain it is for me to order, but I miss them when I'm in Los Angeles.”

Rachel beamed, the teenager tossing her brown braid over her shoulder. “Sure. And Dad is cooking, so I’ll let him know you’re here. I even got a date to go see your movie, by the way.” She beamed. “An older boy- Bucky, he and his friend Steve are fans of yours, though I’d never tell them I know you. Who’d believe me?”

“Older?” Rhaenys said, ignoring Stephen’s frown. “How much?”

“He’s fifteen,” she admitted, and Stephen’s face relaxed, possibly at the amusement on her face. “But he’s sweet- he and his friend helped Maddy Doyle when some of the… twits? Who hang out by the nightclubs started hassling her.”

Rhaenys did frown at that- Maddy Doyle was an old friend of Rachel’s, and a pigtailed Maddy and Rachel had learned a few dance tricks from her, back when she was working for Renee Harris. Maddy was prettier than Kay Frances, and also shy as anything, usually letting Rachel do the talking.

“Twits?” Stephen asked, looking at Rhaenys with raised eyebrows and a hint of a smile.

“I might occasionally lose my temper,” Rhaenys said. “Perhaps I should have taught you how to throw a punch instead, Rachel.”

“Mom did,” Rachel said, before twirling and heading into the kitchen. “She was a VAD driver, back in the day.”

Stephen frowned as the door swung closed. “Where was I?”

“You were being an ass to desperate souls,” she said.

“Not desperate,” he said, frowning. “It wasn’t a tumor, but an old case of encephalitis lethargica. The man still has mood swings and tremors. But I highly doubt surgery will help, especially since I think the disease is actually viral. Besides,” he said, with a bleak smile. “He was old enough to escape the worst of it.”

Rhaenys shivered. “A girl at school caught it,” she said. “It was a few years after the war, and everyone thought the ‘flu had come back. It was the second most terrifying thing I’d ever seen, and I’d barely been in England for a week.”

“I was in medical school or residency for most of it,” he said, visibly trying to do the math. She’d been fourteen, and if he was in medical school…  

“Born December 24th, 1907, just like the magazines say,” she said, lightly. “My father wanted to pack my brother and I away a few times, and finally got his wish. To be fair, he also wanted to pack my mother away, but people liked her more than him by that point. Then the incident where he dragged her to… well, New York, actually.” She gave a mock-innocent look. “Apparently the whole nearly dying on the Titanic while he was sleeping with some barely legal nymphlet meant he had to put any plans on hold… then the War, and the wrangling there. My mother agreed with the schools because she thought it would better Aegon’s life.”

“Wait, that story is true?” A moment later, he blushed at the tone of his own voice, looking at her in a mask of embarrassed horror and injured dignity that reminded her terribly of a cat. He was curious as a rule, though, and the magazines had covered her life a good amount. The studios loved that sort of publicity.

Well, not the nymphlet.

“Yes, yes it is,” she answered, the memory of cold and cries blunted by the absurdity. “Including the bit about the Countess of Rothes telling some idiot that we were not steerage, and even if we were, there was a babe in my mother’s arms. Aegon always squirms when we tell that bit.” She tilted her head, letting her smirk grow a touch evil. Better than trying to think about what she was actually… “And do you want to know the best part?”

“Honestly, I will probably regret it, but yes, I do,” he said.

“Well, Selznick is doing a movie about that night. It’s been a fair amount of years since the last one, and that was… well,” she shrugged, making her eyes wide. “About as accurate as Mae West talking about her age.”

He nodded. “And… he wants you to be involved?”

“I am going to be playing my mother, if it all falls out,” she said, propping her head in her hands. She wanted to keep this light, for when she asked. “Better me than some blonde tart in a wig, right?”

“True,” he said. “...Please tell me you aren’t actually filming on a ship.”

“Oh, no, no, no…” she muttered something that would make her mother glare. But she hated boats. She had kept all of her important items in a valise on the trip from England, and huddled under blankets when she could. “I would have refused. It’ll be studio based, for the most part. I was wondering, though, if you might like to visit, while I film?” She gave him a pleading look. “They are talking about some truly irritating co stars, and I would like being able to complain to you in person.”

She was aware that there was quite a bit she wasn't saying- that if he came to California, there would be a higher likelihood of press speculation, the studio wanting to see how he might fit into her carefully-crafted-by-the-studio persona, disruptions to her life and his.

He gave her a thoughtful look. “I think if I go on vacation that the rest of the hospital may have a party.”

“Are you terrorizing colleagues as well as desperate souls?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager for him to come. But the thought of doing this... she knew why she should be doing the film. The idea of telling the story properly, having earned something serious... that was important and she wanted that. It still made her want to curl up and hide.

“Only the ones who deserve it,” he said, before frowning and studying her. She didn’t squirm- she was too well taught for that, and she knew her hair was in place, and the rose-and-bronze silk bit she was wearing was neat and ironed out by the hotel staff. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

“I live in a cottage in the canyons outside LA,” she shrugged. “Lovely place- but coming to a city after being there makes me want to cover my ears. I don’t drink, so that is out, and I don’t like the thought of needing drugs to sleep. That’s killed or ruined too many good souls for my liking. Black coffee and cold water should be enough. I can’t properly get the tea to work, though,” she said, looking up with a smile. Acting like she was on camera was relaxing- she’d spent so long feeling awkward and tongue-tied that pretending to be someone else was better than any drug. Even Irene Martell, Movie Star, was someone very different then the bluestocking girl who had wanted to study old poetry and songs.

Stephen was studying her skeptically, though, like he knew she was pretending about something, though he couldn’t quite tell what. He seemed to be skeptical of her masks in general, though.

“Going back outside the city would probably be an adjustment for me, as well,” he said finally.

She shrugged. “Most likely. Though the security here is simply darling.” Her eyes went wide. “Can we help you with that, Miss Irene? I checked your mail, Miss Irene, because some of those letters seemed mighty suspicious. My girl would be terribly jealous if she knew what I was doing, you know? Can I help you get in the car, Miss Irene? Oh, Miss Irene, was your skirt pushed up by my hand? What a pretty garter, though, think I could get one for my girl?”

Her mimicry, picked up in boarding school and perfected after coming to New York, was wickedly accurate, she knew, because it usually set Dot and the others into shocked gales of laughter. She didn’t use it too often- people liked Irene Martell to be a sweet little thing, and suspicions that she might be otherwise could ruin her.

Stephen, however, snorted and shook his head. “I can’t believe they get away with that.”

“Well, I know they aren’t selling stories,” she said, thoughtfully. “And I think they worked with Mae West last. She does like shocking people like that. She has an open invitation for me to do one of her plays, if Willie Hays and his little gang makes it too hard for me to get on screen.” It would be a change to Irene Martell, but the older woman had overheard one of those little mimicries and found it hilarious. Myranda had huffed and muttered something about things always working out for her, but Rhaenys liked to point out that she did work, and had merely been lucky enough to have a good nest egg while she got started.

“Still, they shouldn’t be doing that,” he said. “It’s unprofessional and assumes a lot of you.”

“Oh, Stephen,” she raised her eyebrows. “People have been assuming a lot about me since I was twelve. Not like I can avoid it, unless I cover myself from crown to toe.” She tilted her head. “And that would get in the way of doing my job. Besides, you’ve probably dealt with it a time or two. I doubt Randa was the first to make a joke like her little nickname.”

The reflexive denial, which came whenever he was asked to deal with personal topics, was half-out before he shook his head. She’d had to do it in front of reporters to share across the country. She was smiling knowingly, and it was probably more than a little appreciative, because evidently sharp and clever was her type.

“My reputation as a misanthrope and general cynical asshole tends to precede me,” he said instead. “It has slowed any jokes and assumptions quite a bit.”

She nodded, watching as the swinging red door opened. “I don’t think I can do that, unfortunately.” Her voice was thoughtful. “It would disappoint the fans, and a fair amount of my roles are due to being reliable and easy to work with. The public loves a Garbo, but I’m better on the director’s ulcers.” She tapped her fingers on the scratched and battered table. “You know, if the doctor thing doesn’t work out, I could hire you to glare at people and make cutting comments for me.”

He laughed as Rachel came over with their food.

  
  


~

  
  


**_April 1, 1939_ **

  
  


The woman in the fox-fur stole was lying crumpled on the wide steps, pale blonde hair spilling over worn carpet the color of blood and forming a halo over her pale face and closed eyes.

“Dear, if you don't get up I will have to get our host to help me,” said the woman standing over her. Her dark hair was rolled into a bun, and her full mouth was twisted with amusement. Despite the gloom around her, there was something bright in her that seemed to make the shadows recede.

“Will you?” the fallen woman asked, not opening her eyes.

“Or I could just drag you,” the other woman sat down next to her, crossing her legs and waiting. “Terribly undignified, but I'm not entirely sure you have dignity.”

“I'd prefer our host,” the blonde said.

“Are we allowed to be here?” Sofia asked, glasses sliding down her nose. The spell bubble they were under left the world a little out of focus, and did muffle a bit of the sound, but both women had good clear voices that remained understandable, and no one seemed to notice.

“It's a technical grey area, as long as you stay quiet when we're outside the spell,” Stephen said. “I've done it a time or two before, usually with a book or a medical journal to edit.” The director had been a bit annoyed, actually, but upon seeing Rhaenys' grey face when they were doing the water scenes, he'd caved easily enough.

They watched the scene until the end, and the actors and crew started milling about.

Wong dropped the part of the spell covering him, the room seeming to sharpen, allowing for details to be easier to spot. Also, more importantly, for everyone else to see them.

“Irene,” he called, hands hidden and heart in his throat. What would she do...?

Rhaenys looked up and her face… he couldn’t quite catch all the expressions on her face, but he didn’t think any of them were murderous rage.

“And who, precisely, are you?” asked a girl with white-blonde hair and rather more coyness than was good for her, especially in a silver dress that would be more appropriate on a woman a decade her senior. She had been sitting not too terribly far away, clearly waiting for her scene. She was attempting to get a bit too close, glaring defiantly at a fuming Carole.

Stephen looked down at the very young girl, raising his eyebrows. Carole, he would have thought, was not the sort to be bothered by a rather obvious ploy. Not to the point where she wouldn’t be more focused on using his guts as set decorations. “Rh- Irene, my dear, why is there a child let out without supervision?”

“Lana, little love, please go let the nice men in charge know that my husband has stopped by,” Rhaenys said, a hint of wicked mischief in her expression as she walked over, wearing a soft rose colored silk that skimmed over her like water, augmented with dragons and bats. Someone in the costume department had decided to have fun, apparently. “It shouldn’t delay filming, and go and have a glass of water- you look rather parched.” She pulled a face. “And perhaps you and Judy could try and check on our illustrious co-star?”

The girl looked at his wife with a slightly baffled expression, but did walk off.

“Poor kid,” Rhaenys said, shaking her head. “Good on you for realizing she is one, though.”

“New contract?” he asked when she hugged him, hard enough that his ribs protested. But she was standing on her toes so her nose was buried in his collar, so he wouldn't move for anything. She was warm and smelled of lavender and something like a sweet spice, just as always, and he'd missed her more than he'd admit.

“Yes, but with Chaplin, so I’m on loan, same as Carole,” she said in his ear. “MGM would never have me full time. How long do I have you?”

“I… was a bit afraid I’d need a hotel,” he admitted. “My companions…” How to explain this with an audience?

“I never changed the locks,” she said, waving it off as she pulled away. “And as much as I wanted you with me… you sounded like you were better, in the letters. I wouldn't take that from you.”

“I did still miss you,” he said, wondering if he was trying to reassure her or just excuse himself. “And I could try and stay here.” Really, he was amazed no one else was keeping an eye on whatever madcap exploits the cinema folk were up to. He might need to argue his case in person, but really.

He probably wasn’t going to be able to work alone…

“Right,” she said. “I’m going to be done for the day soon, provided none of us are too terrible. Do you want to stick around, or do you want to handle the grocery shopping for your guests? Mya should be around, she can get you home.”

“Sticking around might be good,” he said, wondering if he’d be able to poke around. He still wasn’t entirely sure what, exactly, they were looking for. “I was in too much of a rush to read the papers- what are you starring in now?”

He brushed aside the flicker of hurt in her eyes- he’d probably forgotten it in her last letter. If it hadn’t been lost- there was a reason he’d taken to numbering his.

“It’s this fascinating idea about revitalizing the horror genre. Or rewriting it- Thalburg did The Mark of the Vampire and the twist was utterly new for cinema, so they are trying something not quite similar. A pair of ladies- Carole and I- are escorting her sister and her friend on a trip to an old family home. While there, our villain is attempting to do… well, that might ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?” she said, shooting him a shadow of her old grin.

“So I’ll find out when I come with you to the premiere?” he asked.

She looked utterly relieved and leaned up to kiss him at that. “I want to tie you to the bed and not let you leave for at least a month,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You do realize how long you’ve been gone?”

“I have a very long, very interesting story to tell you,” he said. “Just… not here?”

She nodded. “I have to go- you just need to stay off the set, so we can finish quicker.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“...That's your wife,” Wong was watching, face carefully blank.

“...Yes?” Stephen was smirking a little bit. He was perfectly aware of the apparent peculiarities of his marriage.

“She seems... nice. And intelligent,” Wong's voice was very dubious. And... “How did you marry her?”

“Pity,” he said, shaking out his hands.

“Pity,” Wong repeated, sharing a look with Sofia. “I was thinking head injury.”

~

He did not, however, get out without someone yelling at him. It was when Rhaenys was gathering her things- Carole had come over, Rhaenys' friend stalking over with rather more personality than any one person should have.

“I want to kick your ass,” Carole said, raising an eyebrow at him. “You know how badly you hurt her?”

“She wanted me to go,” he pointed out, wondering if there was a graceful way to back away from her.

“Yes, and she…” Carole scowled and looked away. “You need to ask her what happened when you decided fucking off for two years was a good plan.”

“What happened?” he asked. “I did receive her letters. Mostly.” Which, if he was honest with himself- and he knew her needed to be- were probably carefully censored  so as to not worry him. “And I wrote back.”

“I shouldn’t be the one to tell you, but if Pa went and did that, he’d be sleeping on the porch, not welcomed back like nothing happened,” Carole muttered.

Stephen was feeling deeply uneasy about this all. “I’ll ask, and wait until we’re alone. Carole, she didn’t tell me anything happened. I would have come back if she asked.”

She studied him at that, as if deciding if he was worth... shooting? Tossing little Lana at? Clobbering with the nearest bit of plywood?

“Can you at least use your hands?” Carole asked, after a long minute.

“Mostly,” he waved a hand at her. “The tremors are down, at least, but most of it was learning to deal with the pain- I didn’t want to end up needing the pills for needing the pills, and…”

“Irene doesn’t deserve a dope fiend for a husband,” Carole agreed, easing a little. “Pretty sure even the Turner girl would stab you if you did that- Irene’s been playing diplomat for everyone here.” She gave him a wicked grin. “Maybe you should start the next bit of your apology by fucking her calm.”

He shrugged, managing to keep a straight face. “That was already part of my plan.”

“Maybe you can stay, then,” Carole said.

 


	3. Shield Her Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Christabel, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

_The Hollywood gossip press was notoriously moralistic and harsh to the stars they felt went against the social contract. The idea of fooling around, affairs, and the like- they had to be carefully stage managed, or used as fodder for a disapproving public. When you factor in how tightly the studios controlled the public-facing lives of their stars, romantic and sexual rebellions start to make sense, not as a mistake made of bloated excess or distorted judgment, but as a person, stuck in a carefully hidden trap. Some of these ended in disaster, disgrace, or derailment. Others worked, the couple sticking together happily until death. Others... are a bit harder to explain._

_The revelation that sweet comedy ingenue Irene Martell had been having a relationship with a man nearly a decade her senior, of very recent Cuban and Italian extraction in an era when gangster films ran rampant? Much less an affair across the continent, with no signs that she was planning on marrying, or that either of them planned to move? That had been meant as a rebuke to a star making her own fate. This, however, doesn't seem to be a case where editorial meddling had much effect..._

_From Examinations of the Examiners, a history of the entertainment press, 1997_

  
  


_**March 1934** _

  
  


Seeing her agent with a copy of Photoplay and the Examiner in hand made her nervous, especially since Tyrion was wearing sunglasses and drinking.

“Want a vodka?” he asked. His head was leaning alarmingly towards her kitchen table. Really, her kitchen was not the best place to have a hangover. The walls were a bright blue, the cabinets all a buttery gold, and the blue-and-white tiles on the floor apparently induced vertigo. Not to mention the enormous honeycomb window, shining directly on his face.

“No, Tyrion, I don’t drink, remember?” she said, focusing on not wringing her hands. What on earth? Louella Parsons wasn’t terribly fond of her- to be fair, the feeling was mutual- but it tended more towards her usual patronizing bullshit than actual venom. And she'd hardly focus on serious, worrying entertainment news, like the banning of The Rise of Catherine the Great. Actually, she had to admit, that was possibly covered in the magazine- but that was because a Fairbanks was involved. But Queen of Tashkani was set to premiere in two weeks.

And the Titanic movie hadn’t released the casting, not for another week. Drat. If that tyrannical busybody had tried to influence it with her usual slapdash attitude towards the facts…

“Do you want eggs?” she asked, after a moment. There was no excuse to be rude.

“You probably should have told me about the boyfriend,” Tyrion said, looking up and grinning a bit. “Is he a good fuck, at least?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, steadily. Her room probably wasn’t tilting- Tyrion was hungover enough she wasn’t sure if he’d notice an earthquake, though. “He isn’t an actor, I didn’t think it would be an issue.”

“Sweetling, that morality clause in your contract…” he shrugged. “I think it is trash, and a waste. And you are actually good at being discreet. I can tell the suits that it's better than the speculation that you are fucking Hepburn or whatever other broad. They’ll go for it. The proper English lady going for a bit of rough.”

Rhaenys tilted her head. “He’s a doctor. A fairly well respected one, too. Mya looked into him for me, he's one of the leading lights and such. He's not married, not a criminal, and he doesn't do drugs- he barely drinks, for heaven's sake.” She craned her head to try and see the photo. What on earth did they get? Really, he was more stiff than Harry Hardying sometimes. Far less of a bore, though, and much more attractive. “Besides, I did have relationships with broads, as you so charmingly call them. And men, though they usually want to broadcast that information.”

“Yes, but you managed not to get photographed with those women. And as for the men... Meh, Hollywood. It’s a dark-haired man who they can’t place, and you were being sneaky- which is the same as discreet in their minds. Most good girls are dating mobsters, after all- look at the rumors around Thelma Todd’s divorce. It can be countered- we’ll play up your boring virtue and his reputation, I guess. It’ll be all staid and proper and as if you don’t have a bite mark on your neck.”

She winced, hand flying to the bruise peeking out from between her robe and her hair. She knotted the parti-colored silk a little closer. Not that Tyrion would care- he'd seen more attractive naked women, and he preferred them taller. “Really, Tyrion. I didn’t want him to have to deal with the speculation.”

“Well, as far as I can tell, he wasn’t the one who leaked it, which is what I care about- some Hearst reporter with a camera and a hard prick where you are concerned.” He looked her over and shrugged. “Not that I can blame him, with those pins, but the sweet sexless princess persona should deflate a man in an instant.”

“It never does,” she sighed. “Most men are incapable of hearing the word no.”

“Your fellow does, though?” Tyrion frowned. “Because I know people. People know you, more relevantly, because they actually like you. They just like my money.”

“I like you,” she responded, just going for the eggs and a bowl. Perhaps some of the bell peppers that Mya had brought. They looked fresh. “And he’s not done anything to hurt me. He’s… good at listening, in that regard.” She hoped she wasn’t blushing.

“...That’s good,” Tyrion said, and she knew he was trying for tact for once. That should be rewarded.

“How bad are the articles?” she asked, reaching for the cheese.

“Parsons is being a priss- which, considering the photo is you talking to this guy outside a fucking museum, because you are boring like that…” he scowled. “Where does she get off?”

“Tyrion, this is coming from a man who reads economic articles for fun? We were having a discussion on the ethics of traveling and bringing home half a country’s antiquities, not to mention translations,” she said, grabbing a knife and slicing the peppers. She hid her face and added, “And I don’t think she gets off, that would be the problem.”

He cackled at that. “And the Photoplay has a short article, mostly discussing your movie, but they have the photo in it, and speculation about who it is.”

“Oh, damn, I know he mentioned that the magazine is usually floating around the staff,” she sighed, before cracking the eggs. It was soothing. She had pepper, some garlic, and she’d need to do her own shopping, really. Mya was good about a lot, but they’d come to an agreement that some things were best left to the respective experts.

And Mya was awful at cooking. Rhaenys had shadowed the cooks Mother hired, as a child and when home from school. Also shopkeepers who took pity on a poor stranded young woman, trying to find the dishes she'd enjoyed when her mother got to choose, or her cousins came to visit. She signed and kept rummaging for ingredients. There was some of Mya’s chicken, which would probably work with this… after all, he was probably too hungover to mind the scorched bits.

“Odds of them ratting him out?” he asked. “Not that dating you is…”

“Skirting legality, darling?” she looked up enough to give him a poisonous smile. She’d inherited it from Mother, who’d needed it, considering who she’d married. And there were enough comments floating about... “Mother is Iranian, his mother was Cuban, Mann Act and all that.”

“There’s that,” Tyrion sighed. “I mean, Del Rio managed it. It's just with the news about the Code, people are getting their pricks jammed up each others' asses. You can go to Europe, I suppose.”

“Aside from the rather alarming news reports, you’re assuming he’d want to go to Europe,” Rhaenys said dryly. She’d been an idiot, really. She knew asking him to visit might pose problems, and she’d still asked. If this article hadn't come out, then there would only be a few short months before it did happen. He might not want the prying that came with this. Because, well, she was known for being so very proper, even frigid, and then she dared to hide the fact that she was dating. Well, she was hopefully inoffensive enough no one would bring the Mann Act into it. “And his coworkers would rat him out- I love him desperately but the man has a talent for making an ass of himself.” She paused. “Not in your style, thankfully, but still somehow more arrogant and abrasive.”

Tyrion groaned. “I’d prefer a bevy of naked ladies to someone who’d run his mouth.”

“I wouldn’t,” Rhaenys said, putting butter on the skillet before mixing in the eggs.

“Well, yes, because you are desperately in love with him,” Tyrion said, with only faint mockery.

She paused and reviewed what she had said. Oh, really. She needed to stay on guard. Sereni would tease her endlessly if she heard.  “Besides,” she proceeded as if he hadn’t said a word, “when you think about it, you have both problems.”

She could feel him scowling at her as she continued adding ingredients. “I have that Tabasco sauce people keep insisting works for hangovers in the cabinet if you’d like some.”

“Yeah, that works,” he said. “So, what do I need to know about this guy?”

“He’s not a wiseguy,” she said firmly. Thelma Todd’s complaints about her ex-husband and his would-be buddies made it clear that wasn’t how she’d ever go. And she couldn’t see Stephen agreeing to that sort of thing. It would require him to not run his mouth, for one thing.

Though Tyrion seemed to get along alright.

“Pity, Dragna might be useful in that case,” Tyrion grinned. “Still might- one of his guys was talking about what he wanted to do with you, after seeing your old pin-ups from the Sennick days. Dragna told him to shut it, he was talking about a real classy lady.”

“And then he ordered someone shot, most likely,” Rhaenys said, absently, flipping the eggs a bit. “Tyrion, you really shouldn’t gamble with them.”

“Ah, they’re too scared of my father, really,” he said, looking better as the smell of cooked food started wafting over. “Besides, I measure my bets.”

“You count cards,” she said, opening a cabinet and getting out the plates, which were a shade of yellow he’d complain about, no doubt.

“So do you,” Tyrion said.

“Not when the other fellow has a gun,” Rhaenys said, sharply. “Playing tricks to make Navarro laugh is a far different thing, my dear.”

“It is when you do it to irritate the Crawford bitch, though,” Tyrion pointed out. Rhaenys sighed. That… was true. Joan was never her favorite person, and the feeling was mutual- old money versus new fame, was how Tyrion had put it last time. Though that made her feel snobbish.

“She’s not going to be in the new picture, is she?” she asked. She had enough to deal with, and the rumors swirling about.

“Kay Francis wants to play the Countess of Rothes, which I think in terms of glamour she’ll get. You, of course, will be perfect as Countess Elia, mostly because the publicity department read your bio and realized that multiple orgasms are a thing,” Tyrion pinched his nose.

“Yes, well, the advertisements write themselves, don’t they?” she piled eggs on the plate.  “I heard Lugosi wants in- the man was never happy being typecast as Dracula.”

“He won’t,” Tyrion predicted. “Though Karloff might.”

“Ah,” Rhaenys was perhaps a little more forceful than she should be, pulling open the cupboard for the tabasco sauce. He was a talented man, she agreed. Both of them were very good in their respective genres. She still wasn’t fond of some of the roles they chose. Or the fact that they were cast the way they were. Still, she probably shouldn’t hate that much of Hollywood, especially given the restrictions they were all under. And Lugosi at least was typecast so badly that he had less power with his choices. “And the other one?”

She still wasn’t sure about it- it was a modern sort of retelling of the story of Susanna, and she did like the part- she got to play a virtuous heroine who didn’t die, and the married part was a rarity. Not impossible, as Tyrion pointed out. Lady Rhaenys was protected from that. Though she’d have difficulties, especially with any sort of venomous speculation. Stephen would have difficulties, and she hated being an imposition.

And they were nowhere near that stage, she reminded herself. They could manage the different coasts issue with an amount of ease that proved it.

“Still in the air- they don’t want another Catholic boycott, not after the last made ‘em actually stick to the rules,” he sighed as she passed him the plate and a fork. “Personally, I think it will play well, and I don’t want you losing it.”

“Understood,” she said, settling in with her own plate. “I’ll see if I can get Stephen on the phone, then, this afternoon, and warn him.”

“Why not now?” Tyrion asked, before realizing his mistake. “Right, it would be eleven in the afternoon there, and if he works at a hospital he’d be up to his eyeballs in screaming people.”

“And you are not to do a thing until I speak with him,” she warned.

“I have to promise you aren’t dating a married man,” Tyrion said, jabbing his fork at her. “Or that you didn’t go and elope.”

“I’ll wait ‘til my contract’s up,” she promised, watching him turn green and grinning.

“No, no no,” he muttered. “Wait until you get a new, better contract. One for at least three years, though seven is better. Then make a smash success. And don’t get pregnant!”

“I shan’t- really, Tyrion, he’s good, but I highly doubt he could manage that while still in New York,” she said, watching him choke.

Perhaps she should wait a day or so before admitting to her plan of having Stephen in California when they filmed the Titanic movie. Or perhaps if she lied and said she'd been planning on opening up to the press using that...

  
  


~

  
  


The phone call wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“Hello,” Rhaenys said. “This is rather a muddle, isn’t it?”

He snorted, wishing that he could sit down and take the call- but he’d placed the phone on an end table with no chairs nearby. Because, as Rhaenys had said, he was incredibly dim for an intelligent man. So now he was bone tired after back to back surgeries, still standing, and aware this was going to be a long conversation.

“I don’t think they’ve quite put it together, but one of the nurses kept staring,” he said.

“Perhaps she’s taken a fancy to you,” she suggested, and he had to smile a bit.

“I made her cry last week,” he pointed out. She’d deserved it, for being a complete incompetent who could not tell time.

“Perhaps she is planning your painful death, then,” Rhaenys laughed.

“You sound far too cheerful about that,” he said. He’d just lean against the wall for now.

“I am trying not to come out and say that your name is going to be out there by the end of the week, especially as Tyrion realized that I tried to hide your name from him until I spoke to you,” she admitted. “It’ll hardly be front page news, and I’m not exactly one of the biggest stars...”

“But you do have dedicated fans,” he agreed. “And the fact that you’ve never been linked to anyone before makes it worse.”

“Well, not since I came to Hollywood, not seriously. Plus the general irritation when the studios are reminded that their stars are people,” she said, and he could hear the annoyance in her voice, and imagine the narrowing of her eyes and set of her jaw. He wanted her back here, for a dizzying moment. They could sit at the table with something light and discuss options. “It doesn't help that they did not carefully choose a costar who I can be seen to be promoting movies with.”

“Hopefully they’ll learn to deal with it,” he said. “And I’ll keep an eye out.” He rubbed his temples. “I’m assuming that you want to be the one to release my name?”

“If Tyrion is in charge, it will be minimal fuss,” she said, and he slid down to the floor. “He likes me, and has a vested interest in making everything run smoothly. If the jackals get it themselves, they’ll assume there is a reason that I refuse to talk about it, and you’ll be dealing with extra messiness, and the studio execs will be more upset. And then they’ll want us to get married or separate entirely.”

“Ah,” he said. He… didn’t usually like the idea of people in his space. And he wasn’t really interested in leaving New York.

Though she could do Broadway. She was well liked on stage, and wouldn’t need to deal with the uncertainty of the Code. And unless he’d severely misjudged her, she would be happy to let them both focus on work, without a need to focus on domestic things. Maybe children, but a larger apartment and a nanny could be used if that ended up happening.

He tabled that thought, and how quickly it had come, for later. Which made the next thing to come out of his mouth even worse. “Would you like to get married?”

He’d blame that on exhaustion. Yes, exhaustion was a good excuse.

“If we can still stand each other in a while, it would hardly be a hardship,” she answered, after a long moment. “We get along well enough, we’re good…” she trailed off, and he bit back a laugh.

“In bed?” Well, he could probably sound like less of an ass.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And the wall, if I remember correctly.” She sounded mild enough he almost imagined he’d been hallucinating… he did laugh at that, imagining the expression on her face. “I wouldn’t want it to be because my studio is made up of terrible busybodies, though. And it would probably be better to spend more time in the same city before leaping into it.”

“Right,” he said. Though the thought of her in his bed was… distracting. And bound to linger.

“Is your family…” she paused. “Will they be alright with it? You don’t mention them at all, and really, that’s fine, but there is going to be some press. And I am… well, me.”

“...I don’t…” He tilted his head back. Aside from her father, she seemed to get along with her family. She spoke fondly of them, and mentioned her brother telegraphing her with every release. He didn't think she mentioned any of them ever visiting, however, which might be odd. “None living and in the country.” That covered it well enough, he supposed. “There's an aunt who runs a cafe in Havana, I'll have to let her know, she mostly stops to visit when she is in the city, which isn't terribly often.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry if I… I shouldn’t have…”

“No, no,” he said. “You needed to ask, and I’ll get over you asking.” He wondered if he should tell her all of it. “My brother… we had a fight, a few years ago, he drove off, there was an accident…” His laugh was bitter enough he was amazed it didn’t damage the phone. “I had refused to visit… my father was dying, and I was done with grief. My sister died when I was in medical school, you see, and my mother shortly after that. Victor had come to bring me home, and I… did not take it well.”

“...You and half of Europe, darling. The living half, that is,” she said, without judgment. “Mind, my reasoning in a similar situation would be spite.”

“Deserved spite,” he pointed out. “I didn’t have that.”

“We all make mistakes, or so I’ve been told,” she pointed out. “The best ways of dealing are learning from it, or at the very least finding someone who will call out our idiocy. I have no doubt you were tactless, but you didn’t give him the keys, and didn’t tell him to crash.”

“I actually managed to avoid that,” he said, with a bitter chuckle as he hit his head against the wallpaper. “Near thing, though.”

“I might have told my father that he should go and end it all before he managed to completely ruin my brother or mother’s life,” she said, after a moment. “There… may have been a few other sentiments that would shock the gossip columnists, as well.”

“...What provoked that?” he asked.

“He tried to seduce one of my schoolmates,” she said, with the sort of tone that meant the discussion was closed, because enough dangerous bits were in it to make her publicist have a breakdown. “Also told me that he refused to pay for university, and while he had no doubt I was fast enough to make the tuition, he’d lock me up if need be.” There was silence on the line. “We tend to be brilliant at knowing how to cut each other to pieces, and most times you just pretend it never happened, but when he gets in a pet like that, everyone knows he doesn’t think things through. I took my jewels and some dresses and took myself off. Went on the next ship to New York.”

Pet? Stephen sat up, muscles protesting, as he wondered if she was skirting the issue of her father’s fucking sanity. “What did your family say?”

“That staying out of the country was probably for the best,” she said, strained. “Weren’t we discussing your family history?”

That made him laugh. “I don’t want to at the moment. When will they release it?”

“I’ll call Tyrion- he should still be awake, I think he went to nap after speaking to the studio,”  she said. “So the next edition of whatever they decide.” He heard a slight rustling noise over the line. “I might be asked to do an interview. If you don’t want to visit anymore…”

“I do, actually,” he said. Seeing Rhaenys in her own environment would be interesting. And really, he could do with a vacation.

“I will hopefully have a shooting schedule in a couple of days,” she said. “Now, go get some sleep, twit.”

He laughed as the line clicked.

 

~

  
  


_**April 1 1939** _

  
  


Rhaenys was far too _light_ when he finally got her alone, and part of him thought he could feel her ribs as he maneuvered to use the wall to brace her, gloved hands sliding up under her blouse, which she’d started unbuttoning as soon as she crossed the threshold to the bedroom and before he’d managed to close the door.

“You’re here, you’re real,” she muttered, and one of her nails clipped his ear as she ran her fingers through his hair. He bit the tip of her ear lightly in payback. “Promise me.”

“I’m here,” he promised. He’d missed her, missed the feeling of warmth she seemed to carry around her, missed the way her eyes went dark and the feel of her hips as she moved against him.

“Next time I go with you,” she said, looking over his shoulder at the bed and clearly calculating. Now that he was properly looking, her cheekbones were too sharp, and he resolved on…

“What?” he grinned, then skimmed his way down her throat to hear the little sigh she made. “What about your contract?”

“Close enough to done, and with Willie Hayes and his gang my picture-making days are almost over,” she said. “It’s probably good I never was a big spender, I suppose.” She bucked her hips as she tried to readjust, his brain stuttering to a stop. “Perhaps I’ll take up writing, what do you think?”

“Do I get to see it first?” he laughed.

“Of course,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Right after Dot.”

“Hmm,” he said, taking advantage of her new position to move up her skirt and slip, enjoying the impatient expression across her face. “Shall we retire to the bed?”

“Do you know, I think I might like it if you keep the gloves on,” she said, “but yes, to the bed,” she said, laughing as she dragged him up over, and she was sitting on top of him, her ass perched over a very attentive part of his anatomy.

“Really,” he said, raising an eyebrow. The gloves were black leather, rather than the enchanted yellow ones that went up to his elbows- he'd tried to blend in for now, not wanting to cause problems.

“It is an... intriguing experience,” she said, cocking her head and making her tumbled black curls fall over her partially exposed breasts. She removed her ivory brassiere, eyes meeting his with a challenge, and he obediently used his gloved hands over her nipples, rolling it the best he could while she squirmed her way down.

“We'll experiment,” he said, laughing a bit as she smirked at him.

“We were always good with that.”

  
  


~

  
  


“So,” Rhaenys murmured. Her mouth was next to his ear, she was straddling his lower back, and her hands were trailing down his spine, the warm metal of her rings hitting the ridges of his spine. It was a good feeling, and he didn’t want it to end. Judging by the way she was wiggling, not that long after her... welcome home... she clearly didn't want it to end either. “What exactly is going on that made you bring an entourage home?”

He sighed and stretched out, knowing she’d end up asking at some point, and at least no one was here to see him try and explain. She slowly lifted herself to sit beside him, crossing her bare legs and watching curiously. “I don't know if you heard about a series of fire deaths- a fair amount of them were picture folks, but...” He tried for lightness, trying not to remember the smell of burnt flesh and ruptured bowels.

She stiffened, and he rolled a bit, tugging her down and tucking her under his chin, letting her breathe against his chest and relax. That expression on her face- blank and ashen- it was the sort of thing she hadn't shown him much, and when she did... “Nothing like that happened to me. But,” and here he paused, trying to find the best way to put it. “It happened to other people. Lille, Port Said, Calcutta, Beijing… The people I was with, they do have real power. But they are trying to stop it.”  

She was quiet, for a moment. “Did you learn anything interesting there?”  

“A few things,” he said, hopeful. “I’d prefer to show you, though.”

“I’d like that,” she said, frowning a bit. “But they sent you to catch them? Stephen, I adore you, but you don’t strike me as much of an investigator.”

“That isn’t my job, thankfully,” he said. “But I have a few tricks.”

“A magic mirror?” she asked, teasingly. “One that can show you whatever you want?”

“Something like that,” he said, without thinking.

“Really,” she asked, wiggling until she sat up again, her hair wild and tangled. “What did you see?”

He had a feeling that admitting to trying to see her would get him a complicated mix of things- Wong had rolled his eyes, and given the way Mordo had gone, he was deeply regretting letting him get a glimpse of her.

“Were you spying on me?” she traced a hand along a faint scar- one from the accident, where a chunk of glass had hit his shoulder. He'd gotten full function back on that, at least.

He couldn't see her eyes, though.

“Not all the time,” he said, “But... I missed you. So when a letter went astray...” Or he'd been frustrated. Or stuck on what to write her. Or had had to use Sarella as a scribe, which limited what he could say.

“So you know everything, then?” she asked, curling herself against him so he couldn't see her face.

“I suspect I know very little indeed,” he said, running a finger down her spine. “What did I do that irritated Carole so much?”

She relaxed.”You left?”

“Something happened when I left, though, something she said you needed to tell me,” he said.

She tensed, her shoulders and spine moving.

He'd married an actress- her hiding her face was no different than her looking him in the eyes, if she didn't want to tell him. Out of character, though, he normally could tell by how tense her back was, when they were like this.

“I was ill,” she managed. “It was worrying, but I recovered quickly enough. I didn't think to mention it, but Mya was on vacation and Carole was the one who found me.” She looked up as she pulled the sky blue sheet around her, preparing to sleep. “Before I was fully on my feet, I got talked into doing Jolly Good, which was... gah. Thank goodness for Charlie being a dear and deciding to take me on.”

“Mmm,” Stephen said, wondering what she was hiding.

“I am at least a dozen years too old for him,” Rhaenys said, arching an eyebrow. “And I'd think my willingness to have you in my bed again speaks wonders for my fidelity.”

“Oh, I never doubted that,” Stephen said. It was the truth. Any secret she had, it wasn't an affair- they were neither of them jealous sorts, despite both of them having a romantic past, and that Rhaenys was one of the rare people who was good at remaining friends with her former partners, male and female. Besides, Rhaenys had a well-justified hatred of infidelity.

It broke something in her, came Aegon's voice in his memory, just the same.

Another mystery to add to the pile.

“Where will you begin?” she asked, and he could hear her mind whirring. “Peculiar deaths... oh, you don't mean that wretched Frey man who died a couple of days ago? I heard a rumor about spontaneous human combustion, but really, Stephen...”

“It jumps from host to host... it's possible, especially if he had contact with the victim before that...” Stephen shrugged.

“It's possible, he came over from England- there was some tedious bit of business, I vaguely remember his... cousin? There is a truly horrific number of them, but I had at least one cousin of his who went to my school,” she sat up at that, thinking. “He tried to turn it into something, I turned him down flat, and he said I would regret it. Since Tyrion scared the man half to death by walking in with someone I deeply suspect is a mafia fixer, it wasn't a terribly convincing threat.”

“...Just out of curiosity,” he asked, “did you do anything besides make films and fend of the advances of other men while I was gone?”

“I missed you?” she offered, and under the joke there was a hint of vulnerability. “I truly did.”

“So who could he have passed it onto?” he frowned.

“He ended up taking up with one of the six month girls,” she said, yawning. “Millie Graydon, though I think she changed it to Marie for professional reasons. He stashed her up near Pickfair, I can't see her letting that go until she needs to.”

“We'll go in the morning, then.”

  
  


 


	4. Too Soon Made Glad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this is from "My Last Duchess" by Robert Browning.  
> Note- I swiped the original "Lost Shakespeare About Dracula" and title of "of Tashkani" concept from Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian, though the details are mine. (As Vampire Dracula is a real thing in the Marvel Multiverse, it's totally likely!)

_“I will not allow you your victory.”_

_So spoke Queen Mahidervan in The Queen of Tashkani's harrowing climax, and so spoke Irene Martell in nearly everything she did. While she eventually married Stephen Strange, a noted neurosurgeon who is now most famous for being one of the earliest and most vicious enemies of lobotomies- and the weird stories around Greenwich Village, which is a topic better covered in a different podcast- while she eventually married him in early 1936, neither of them were likely to cave to public pressure. Especially as Queen of Tashkani became a critical and commercial darling, codifying the ways that genres, with a creative director, could be blended and bent._

_\- “Queen of Tashkani”- From the Horror Maidens podcast, October 2018_

  


** _March 1934_ **

 

He was, she thought ruefully, rather unfairly attractive. Perhaps not in the way of the Fairbanks men, but his clever mouth and the way he slowly built into his interests and grew passionate about a subject...

 

There was something, in that sharp intense face and the way his hands moved, sketching ideas upon the air into something very like reality, that drew her in.

 

She frowned a bit. “Stephen,” she asked, thoughtfully, “have you ever been to a movie premiere?”

 

“No,” he said, mouth quirking up. “Probably a bit busy.”

 

“I suppose that is true,” she said, tilting her head and looking up. Unfairly tall as well- she was a trifle under five feet, he a trifle over six. “I've never been an operating theater, busy with filming and all that. And it isn't something that should be observed for film research. But would you like to see a premiere?”

 

“What film?” he asked, and he was teasing her, wretched man.

 

“Queen of Tashkani,” she said, thoughtfully. “The New York premiere is tomorrow night. It's a bit of a horror movie. By which I mean I was sold the project as a reconstruction of a lost play by Shakespeare, and not told about the exact plot they went with until much later. I suspect there was a rewrite between my sign-on and production.” She laughed. “Oddly enough, this is the play I was mentioning when we first met.”

 

“Well...” Stephen shrugged. “I suppose I have a suit.” He frowned. “Vampires, though? Did you mention the vampires?”

 

“I've been told that it was a take-off on the Dracula legend that Shakespeare played with, and I managed to track down some of the poetry that was done on the topic in Persian and Turkish, it's rather lovely and melancholy. One of the writers found translations, and I got to play with the intonation to match,” she said. “I suspect that this might actually be why I was hired, they could claim authenticity in a rather dubious process.”

 

“Probably,” Stephen agreed. “Did you actually like it?”

 

“Oh, yes, actually, I adored it, the cast was lovely,” she said, tucking a loose curl back and enjoying the way his eyes wandered down along her throat to the garnet necklace that nestled at the edge of her collar. She knew how to portray herself for effect, and it was nice to have that be appreciated. “The child actors were actually quite sweet, and one of them will be in New York for this.”

 

“You don't work with child actors often, do you?” Stephen frowned. She didn't mention it, at least, and he'd seen enough of her movies.

 

“No, not really, but I had to work with two for this film, and there will be a child actress... playing me, for the Titanic movie,” she made a face. “That is still a truly bizarre statement to make. But I've met Isabella and her mother, and she is truly adorable.”

 

...There was a question he should be asking. “We've... I've... do you want children?”

 

She tilted her head. “Do you know? I've sort of thought about it in an absent way, but. I did not have... my mother was wonderful, but my father was not the best. I don't... I would rather be certain that even if the relationship fails, I would not worry about the father not wanting the children any more? If that makes sense. But if it came to pass, I would be happy with that.”

 

Stephen paused. He... couldn't actually argue with that?

 

Also, he would deny it to his dying day, but he was imagining a small child with dark curls and a curious expression. And Rhaenys singing to them.

 

And that way madness lie, so he just decided to focus on anything else.

 

“I also know the studio would like me not to go alone, now, and you were the person I wanted most,” she added. “Especially as anyone the studio selected would be part of whatever narrative they want to sell.”

 

He blinked. She seemed serious about that. “Most people don't actually want my company.”

 

“I have no idea why that would be the case,” she said, dryly. “Your habit of casual insults is charm itself.”

 

“I'm not... alright, I am that bad, but really, how many of them are false?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. He didn't seem offended by the criticism, more amused.

 

“I cannot speak to the medical insults,” she said, looking at him through her lashes and ignoring the faint double take from one of the other patrons at the cafe, who looked like he might also be a doctor. She'd seen him before, at least.

 

“That's West, he's not half-bad, but he's reckless enough in the operating room for the department twice over,” Stephen said, frowning. “He takes a good deal of the cases I won't.”

 

“Too boring?” she teased, tasting her soup.

 

“Some of them,” he said, shrugging. “There are doctors who can handle them perfectly well, I don't see why I should spend time on them if I can be working on more technically difficult cases. And some of them...” He pulled a face. “The odds aren't very good, or I don't think the improvement will be worth the risk.”

 

“Arrogant yet oddly well reasoned,” she said, poking his plate with her spoon and trying not to laugh as he realized that he did in fact have an untouched sandwich. “You'd fit in well with the studio crowd.”

 

“I don't know if I'd have the face for it,” he laughed. “Or the patience, to be honest. How do you do it?”

 

“I love the work itself, and the end results,” she said, thinking about it. “I can put up with the politics and the sneers for the little girl who writes about how wonderful it is to see me on screen, or getting to play roles like Queen Mahidervan. I do have a good deal of friends in the business, and I'm not letting myself get lost in fantasy about playing forever.”

 

“Makes sense, I suppose,” he admitted, before taking a bite of his sandwich. “I like the challenges. And winning. Mostly winning.”

 

“But you can come? It's in two nights, which I know is short timing, but I did just arrive last night and was told I should get a partner this morning...” she bit her lip. “Again, there was a strong undercurrent of either show up with you or let the studio use me to bolster some loose star's image.”

 

“I'm off,” he confirmed. “That sounds like a plan.” He paused. “Do I actually have to behave, though?”

 

She giggled helplessly. “I want to say no, but I did really love this movie, as silly as it sounds. I've been hoping and working on it for a year and a half, now, and it is incredible, even if there is already some commentary on it being an inappropriate use of Shakespeare.”

 

“No, no, it's Shakespeare,” Stephen tried to keep a straight face. “And Shakespeare has no inappropriate jokes or supernatural motifs.”

 

“I know,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “I know.”

 

He shook his head, and wondered how much fun this would be. Quite a bit, he mused, though it wasn't something he would want to do too often.

 

~

 

 

**_ April 2, 1939 _ **

 

 

He had decided, as they drove down the canyons to the bungalow, to explain some of the various facts he had picked up on. Also to distract himself from the fact that Sofia was driving them down the twisty roads in Rhaenys' practical little car. Mya, he'd gotten used to, before. Mya was sensible and handled the streets like... well, like magic.

 

Sofia was rather... zippier. Enough that he had to remind himself that they were attempting to be subtle, they were trying to find out what the problem was before leaping in with a portal.

 

He wasn't good at subtle.

 

“Vampires,” Rhaenys said, looking at him with narrowed eyes, “are real.”

 

“Apparently,” he said, looking curiously at Wong, who was studying Rhaenys with a frown. Was this some sort of secrecy? He'd married Rhaenys before he'd even learned sorcery was a real thing that worked. He wasn't leaving her out, no matter what a bundle of cranky monks thought. And he hadn't thought Wong disapproved, earlier.

 

“There is so much irony in this,” she said, after a long moment. “I've been menaced by them twice on screen, now.”

 

“Queen of Tashkani was very good,” Sofia said, brightening, the historian seeming to be happy to discuss something in her more usual area of study. “I read that you actually looked into the research for that?”

 

“Oh, yes, there was a wonderful bookseller in Philadelphia who was willing to help me get some materials on the subject,” she agreed. “Though. Dracula. I wonder how they feel about the movie portrayals of themselves. It would be irritating if this was solved, and some poor girl ended up drained of blood next time a movie comes out. Especially given the fact that I'm not certain the movies actually would do very well with getting their strengths and weaknesses down accurately.”

 

“Sunlight weakens them, it doesn't burn them,” Wong said, thoughtfully. “They aren't a topic I deal with often, but if I remember rightly, a wooden stake will help.”

 

“Cleansing fire spells to clear the mess up?” Stephen suggested, wondering a bit about the way Rhaenys' shoulders tensed at that. They really needed to have a good discussion about everything, he supposed.

 

“To make sure that it is truly dead,” Rhaenys mused, twisting her wedding ring about.

 

“Do you have experience with this sort of thing?” Sofia asked, raising her eyebrows and almost taking her eyes from the road. He might have shouted the first few times she'd done that, but he settled for trying to take settling breaths.

 

“No... well... my father,” Rhaenys tilted her head, looking directly at Stephen with those saint's eyes, the violet in them seeming to gleam oddly as a cat's. “He has been very intrigued by a group dedicated to some sort of fire spirit called R'hllor, and he would bang on about it.”

 

Wong winced. “That... would explain a bit.”

 

“I think I heard something...” Stephen frowned, trying to remember who had been discussing it. “Rhaenys, a little clarification?”

 

“It sounds quite a bit like a rather alarming zealot deciding to take bits of Zoroastrianism mixed with something out of a gory gothic shocker,” she said, twirling her ring and staring at him with an unreadable expression. “There is talk of human sacrifice by immolation.”

 

“There is human sacrifice,” Wong added. “They tend to run afoul of most sorcerers, given the fondness for dipping into magic with more recklessness than they should.” He shot Stephen a pointed look, then added, “It makes a mess that wiser souls need to clean up. Rhaenys may have a point- a Red Priest would be a very likely suspect.”

 

“That is something I can quite easily believe,” Rhaenys said, and he wondered if he should do something, because she looked alarmingly gray. “They were very arrogant when they were on Dragonstone, drove my poor mother to distraction.” She raised her chin defiantly. “Now, can we get back to the alarming number of dead people?” She looked out the window as Sofia parked the car.

 

He opened the door and helped her out, noticing the tense way she was holding herself, the faint circles hidden by make-up. Was this part of what he'd been warned about? Aegon hadn't mentioned anything, but perhaps he didn't want to seem mad.

 

“Well, we need to figure out what is actually going on,” Sofia pointed out. “Irene- sorry, Rhaenys, that's st- peculiar-”

 

“As long as you don't call me Sultana, we're fine,” she said, pulling back on her mask of calm. Christ, he remembered when he'd believed in that mask- when he'd needed to believe in it. “The nickname started when I didn't have the power to voice my opinions.”

 

He had fucked up, somewhere, in a way he was just now starting to realize.

 

“Alright, then,” Sofia said, looking between Stephen and Rhaenys. “Do you know any connections between the victims?”

 

Rhaenys took the list from Wong, frowning. “I can't speak to all of them, but I know... let me see...” She studied it a moment, before giving him a regretful smile. “Stephen, your memory is as good as mine, even if you are awful with names.” She frowned. “Going back... I recognize this one from an industry party back when I first started, he was dreadfully charming until he had a few drinks in him. Tyrion didn't like him much, though, and managed to get me away and I ended up working with him. Given later rumors, I probably owe Tyrion a few large favors.” She frowned, a little deeper. “And this one I know because of the tiny incestuous world of the rich and titled- he's a third son, bit of a twit, but not what I would call vicious. The singer I don't recognize, though I might want to ask about if you'd like. Were all the victims in show business?”

 

“Not all- the first was a colleague of mine, in the collection we both work at,” Sofia explained. “He vanished, one day, and we noticed a few missing artifacts. It seems to have switched at about the aristo you mentioned- they were in a port city...”

 

“And there is a wide crowd of people, there...” Rhaenys tilted her head. “Did the singer work for an ocean liner, then?”

 

The door was open, and Stephen frowned. “That's not normal.”

 

“It isn't, unless the Sheriff is in there,” Rhaenys frowned. “Wait, is this the sheriff or city?”

 

“What would the difference be?” Wong asked, dubiously peering in a window.

 

“The city police are bought and sold by the mob and maybe the fascists,” Rhaenys leaned in closer. “The sheriff's department is more rural in their corruption, I'd suppose. It's a bit more nuanced, but they won't be kind to any of us for trespassing. ”

 

“No one is alive in there,” Wong said after a moment.

 

“Then let's go in,” Sofia said, jaw set as she strode in.

 

Rhaenys looked at Stephen, then at Wong. “Well, then,” she said.

 

The smell of smoke was choking, seeming to be an almost physical presence. He could feel it try and cling to his nose, work its way down his throat and clog his lungs. Hopefully, that was entirely his own unease at what it meant, rather than any malevolent presence preparing to possess him. Rhaenys took her orange silk scarf and wrapped the broad bit of cloth over the top of her head and around her face, tossing the fringes over her shoulder.

 

Given the state of the room- she’d needed to hop over the top half of a brass floor lamp, the couch had deep gouges in it that were faintly blackened at the edges, and the walls were covered with a faintly greasy soot- “We're too late.”

Sofia was looking around with a faintly horrified look. “Was that spoon melted?”

“It formed a bargain,” Wong guessed. “Perhaps with each individual host? People can be more susceptible in dreams.”

“They don’t have to be signed with blood on parchment made from human skin, then?” Stephen looked at Rhaenys, who was very still as she took in everything. Her eyes were wide over her scarf, and her hands were held closely to her body, as if she was afraid to touch anything, even with gloves.

“I recognize the smell, from when I was a girl and a factory near a friend of my father's burnt.” Her voice was very small. “Rotten eggs and cordite and cooked flesh. The table has the soot as well. Look, you can see the smears where she must have been- her head went against it, I think, and her arms, probably, and knocked over the chair.”

“So where would he go next?” Wong asked. “Would he continue heading east…”

“Why would he?” Stephen thought about it, the glossy magazines neatly stacked, the silver shoes left by the door. “Rhaenys, Maria was one of the six month girls?”

“I don’t know everyone…” she paused, looked at something on the kitchen counter. “Yes, she must have been. I see a script cover over there.” She walked over, avoiding the splintered leg of a tossed chair. “Oh, shit.”

Sofia raised her eyebrows, either at the curse or how Rhaenys switched focus. Stephen was used to her practical turns, though, and brushed it off. “You recognize the name?”

“John Tolliver, the producer. Issue melodramas, mostly. He’s one of the ones who likes having a … close relationship with his budding actresses,” Rhaenys twisted her mouth unhappily. “Stephen, you met one of those girls, right after... right after we married.”

The little redheaded girl, barely eighteen and so fucking scared it had shaken him out of his self-pity. Yeah, he remembered her. “How is she doing?”

“Good, she switched over to costumes at Paramount,” Rhaenys said. “She’s engaged to a nice gentleman who works as a cameraman. They're waiting a year or so before they get hitched. I wouldn't think that Tolliver'd go after a financers' girl, but she could have decided she wanted someone who was in town more. Or maybe she thought this one would marry her- it doesn't happen most of the time, but just often enough that they can dream of it.” She frowned, and one gloved hand shot out, grabbing a stack of paper from a side table.

“Careful,” Wong hissed, but nothing seemed to reignite.

“Correspondence.” Rhaenys said, wryly. “She seems to handle it all herself. Either a deeply private woman or not as successful as she would hope.”

“You handle it all yourself,” Stephen pointed out.

“My social life is meant to be an enigma, not a publicity campaign,” Rhaenys pointed out. “And I have someone from the studio to help with the fan letters. This is from our Frey, possibly when he landed- it's not a telegram, but I suspect it went through a message boy rather than the postal service- no stamp. It's asking to meet privately that night, rather messily done.”

Stephen raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I did serve as your typewriter for those articles,” she smiled, sweetly enough he almost missed the mockery.

He might have been looking for the mockery. He liked it, which possibly said something about him.

“I'm surprised he didn't telephone her,” Sofia said, looking about.

“Is there a telephone?” Rhaenys looked about. Wong pointed out what was most likely a telephone. What remained of it, at least. “Hmm. There was a terrible storm a few nights past. I wonder if she lost her phone connection.” She tapped her foot. “This may sound silly, but...”

Stephen turned on a mostly undamaged lamp, which glowed cheerily until he turned it back off.

“Peculiar,” Sofia mused. “But it doesn't mean the phones were working.”

They were both right, Stephen had to admit. It wasn't possible to test the phone lines right now. Someone would have needed to cut the phone lines if it wasn't natural. Or someone made it look like an accident.

“Could we interview the neighbors?”

“Mary Pickford is her nearest neighbor, and isn't going to pay attention to a dime a dozen good time girl,” Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, a slightly bitter grin on her face. “She was very annoyed that her son married one of them, though I think Crawford might be the better known right now.”

“That might have been the point of her anger,” Wong pointed out, looking carefully as some of the ash.

“They married at St Malachy,” Rhaenys added, wryly. Wong looked puzzled.

Stephen looked at the ceiling, remembering another affair. Rhaenys in a green silk gown in a hurried ceremony... “How is Rachel, by the way?”

“Oh, she's doing well,” Rhaenys smiled. “Finished up at university, playing her fiddle off Broadway.” She flipped through the correspondence. “Nothing from Tolliver here, but I do see a number of invitations, most of which wouldn't be taken by anyone with a good footing.” She frowned. “I'd like to see her bank balance- I wonder if absence made Mr. Frey's heart grow less fond... or at least less generous.”

“She was on the hunt for a new protector, then,” Sofia sighed, rubbing her nose. “And we think that Tolliver might have been it?”

“I think...” she frowned. “I may need to ask around, but Tolliver was out of town for some reason, but he arrived a week or so ago- I thought someone said that he was in bad with his studio, and was sent away 'for his health', which covers all manner of sins. Myranda was the one who mentioned it, but I don't think we should ask her? He was at a dinner she hosted, and seemed very edgy, but we all put it down to flight and perhaps the issues with the studio. Maria might have been balancing both men, especially if they were travelling. When did Frey die again? Three days ago, four?” She frowned. “They didn't return home, but... who died before Frey?”

“It was some sort of corrupt business man,” Stephen thought back. “Someone who will be more missed for their bank account than their personality.” The observation was slightly self-flagellating, given that aside from one or two people, he was possibly describing himself.

She gave him an understanding look that made him squirm. Rhaenys had a way of cutting to the bone without giving the appearance of trying.

“Should we take these or just copy the information?” Stephen asked. “If we were spotted heading this way...”

“My car is dull,” Rhaenys mused. “But I can see the problems if we were stopped. It would be an easier arrest than actually investigating, especially if it is...” She waved a hand. “Something that would sound unbelievable.”

“I used a spell to hide us,” Wong pointed out.

Everyone looked at him.

“It would have been polite to let us know,” Sofia pointed out. He gave a faint smile.

“I could notice,” Stephen said, watching Rhaenys narrow her eyes faintly. “I could probably show you how to do it.”

“It would be useful,” Wong said, instead of the protests that he expected.

Rhaenys turned to the invitations, handing one to Stephen. “Well, I suspect I know where our producer swain will be tomorrow. Carole sweet talked someone into helping throw a big bash- meant as a celebration, and she's rather more nervous than normal. Also,” Rhaenys said, wryly, “filming can rather cut into a woman's schedule, and this way she gets to celebrate her marriage without really crowing about eloping.”

“Ah,” Wong said, as if that made sense. Or as if he was waiting for context, which would be a refreshing change from his early time at Kamar-Taj. Except this meant going to one of Rhaenys' work parties.

 


	5. Incivility and Procrastination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Thomas De Quincy

Aegon Targaryen is one of those peculiar figures in the history of spycraft- the child of two fascinating parents and younger brother of a movie star, he seemed to rebel by seeming very, very mild. This covered the fact that he was deeply involved in the OSS from his university days. He is credited with mentoring Peggy Carter, among others, and continued his work nearly until his death in 1994...

Oddballs of the OSS, 2014

  
  


_**December 1934** _

  
  


“I did come to visit you for work,” Stephen pointed out.

“I highly doubt you want me to lurk about an operating theater,” Rhaenys smiled at him. She'd managed to make something for dinner, teasing him about his very nice, very untouched kitchenwear. He'd found greenhouse strawberries and cream at a store for dessert, and her eyes had lit up.

He could, despite the mockery of his colleagues, manage to remember things about his... whatever it was that they were. Especially when he wanted to convince her of something.

She did not have to know that he'd forgotten about their date until one of the nurses had made a mocking comment and he'd grabbed them because of a sign in the window.

“I'd think that you wouldn't want me backstage,” he returned.

“You get to sweep me along my schedule much more quickly than I'd otherwise be able to,” Rhaenys pointed out. “If I have you to scowl and be you, then I can manage to deal quite nicely with everyone else. And if I go with you,” she said, shimmying closer, “then you will risk your very important work being derailed by your movie star lover.”

“Or,” he said, trying not to laugh, because he was annoyed that she refused to come, “I can place you in that violet gown, the one I swear is only layers of lace, and a pair of false glasses and a prim bun. I then just place buckets in front of my dumbstruck audience to catch the saliva.”

“Ah, but they wouldn't pay attention to you,” she pointed out. “And I rather thought the point was to make them pay attention to you and your sensible protocols and techniques.”

“I could have you give the speech,” he said, stroking his chin. “I suspect they would listen to you.”

“Especially in the violet gown?” she laughed. “Trust me, darling, the men willing to listen to me about serious subjects is very small. And as much as I would love to cross the Atlantic again, given how much I simply adore boats...” she trailed off, and he remembered how sickly she'd seemed when he came to see her film the Titanic movie. It had gone well in every respect but her nightmares.

“Ah,” he said. “I don't suppose my charm and... private uses would be enough?”

“No, Stephen, your cock will not magically make my fear of boats go away,” she said, shaking her head. She bit into a strawberry. “I'm also afraid that my studio will be very annoyed if I don't make my commitments to them. Generally, there does need to be a ring on my finger before I even think of that.”

He sat down. “You're filming?”

“High Spirits, which is that ghost comedy with Cary Grant, the one I beat Myranda for, that will be set to release about the same time, with the dates you told me,” she gave him a rueful smile, sitting on the chair next to him. “I have publicity to do, a radio show and other bits of worshiping at Hearst's idol. Or idols, given San Simeon's décor. As soon as I finish that, I start filming Dream of Me, and the director is a bear. I might be free... it all depends on how exactly things come about.” She wrinkled her nose. “I'll fly out to see you before you go, and I can come as soon as I wrap on Dream.”

“Why is it that you are fine with flying?” he shook his head. “I will never understand you.”

“There are no icebergs,” she said, dryly. “I will never understand why you drive that car of yours as if the devil is chasing you.”

He couldn't argue with that, he supposed.

~

 

_**June 1935** _

 

London was probably perfectly lovely for his colleagues. He, however, was bitterly regretting the expense of Transatlantic calls- not even the expense, so much as his hotel not being capable of making them. He did stop at a few bookstores for her- there was a lovely collection of Barret Browning's work, and he'd seen a jeweler he'd liked.

He'd hesitated for a moment over a pretty gemstone ring, one that had looked a bit older but he could picture on her hand. That, however, would be seen as a push. She wouldn't push him, really, but he could imagine the rumors.

After spending his first day in London, before the conference started, touring the British Museum and absently tracing some of the sketches, he'd picked up a bright enameled bracelet with a pattern that was loosely based off of hieroglyphs.

He wasn't lonely, per se. He was fine in New York, and they went weeks without seeing each other. He'd be fine once the conference started. But there was... something. Maybe it was that she had lived... if not here, then she had spent time here, had given him suggestions. Like the current restaurant, one she'd apparently gone to with her mother quite often as a student. It wasn't a ghost, really, even if he was the sort of believe in them. But she was so very odd about everything before she'd come to America, before she landed a job with Renee Harris, really.

“Stephen Strange?” asked a man. He was tall, taller than him, with shockingly blonde hair for a man as dark as he was, and wary eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about him, and Stephen wondered if he was an attendee at the conference.

“That is me,” he said, curiously.

“Aegon Targaryen,” the man said, giving him a considering look before sitting down. “So you are the man my sister is involved with.”

He really did wish she was here. “I am.”

“I don't know how much she told you, about her life here,” Aegon said, tilting his head.

“Bits, but she doesn't want to talk about it and I'm not about to force her,” Stephen said. “I know you write?”

“Telegrams, mostly,” he said. “How long have you been seeing each other?”

“Two and a half years?” Stephen calculated. He'd consider the party where they'd met the beginning, he supposed. Otherwise it would be messy- did he start with the letters, the phone calls, or when she returned to New York?

“She didn't tell us about you,” Aegon said. Stephen could see Rhaenys' wary expression in him, and now he looked, he could see the resemblance. It was in smaller things- the hair color was different, but still hung in heavy waves with a widow's peak, the shape of the nose- though thankfully not the size, the slightly skeptical set of the eyebrows...

Also, it would be a stronger weapon against his composure if Rhaenys hadn't told her closer friends about them- Renee Harris, the woman who gave her her first role and stage name; Carole Lombard and Dancy Pearl, who were occasional costars; Marei Grey, her favorite costume designer and debate partner. Sereni Rogare, her former lover and the woman who got her in the air in the first place. Mya. Rebecca and her parents.

“I didn't tell my aunt about her until the article, either,” he shrugged. “Neither of us wanted to feel rushed into anything, so we kept it quiet.”

“And the ring you were looking at earlier?” Aegon asked. At Stephen's startled expression, he added, “I was curious, and men are easy enough to hire, especially when you have good contacts.”

“It's come up, but our work commitments are keeping us on opposite coasts for the next few years,” he said, refusing to be flustered.

“And you are very devoted to your work,” Aegon said, smiling at the waitress, who looked faintly harried. “Nothing just yet?”

“Of course,” the girl said.

“I am very good at it,” Stephen said, not sure where this was going. Other people had called him obsessive about his work before, but really, compared to some of the studio players Rhaenys told him about...

“And... ten years older than my sister?” Aegon raised an eyebrow.

“I have done the basic math there,” Stephen agreed. “So has she. And she is fine with it, and fine with my work. Her career is important to her, and I refuse to force her into a decision about it. Come to think of it, I don't think she's mentioned seeing you since she moved to New York, much less California?” He leaned forward. “Care to explain?”

That didn't get an angry response, just the same faintly wary look, with something like expectation attached. “She didn't come home when our father fell ill- she sent home a telegram explaining that she had work obligations. The same when my engagement was announced, a few months ago. She never even mentioned wanting to go to New York, though she did study public speaking and participated in dramatics.”

“She came in just before talkies hit,” Stephen pointed out. Some of this, he'd picked up from trying to figure out why her being in a relationship was so important, which in turn lead to one of the newer nurses explaining his girlfriend's career. Since she was useful in shepherding loved ones and remarkably willing to deal with his attitude after he said he wasn't going to let anyone know he saw her kissing her girlfriend, he fully intended on keeping her as his usual nurse. She could also do basic math, which was useful. “Her voice is good. Better than good, really, and a lot of the stage-focused people had better skills for them. And I have the feeling that your father was less than supportive of her before she went onstage.”

“He was,” Aegon agreed. “He was always terribly unsatisfied with his children, it caused no end of troubles. I know Rhaenys wanted to go to university, and he refused.”

He'd done a bit more than that, from what she'd said, but he wasn't going to air her story in public.

“I was surprised, actually, he was pushing her towards the library and studies before that,” Aegon continued. “But he lost his temper that summer, when Rhaenys was trying to get things finally together for her entrance exams. His latest mistress was there, which infuriated Mother to no end, because he was normally a bit more discreet, and she was... uncomfortable, around Rhae. That wasn't what drove her off, though, I think. Something terrible happened, though no one said anymore. Rhaenys went terribly... quiet, more so than normal. It was as if something had broken in her. And Father... I suspect he began to fall ill about that time.”

“Ill how?” Stephen asked. Rhaenys had not mentioned that part. But considering her views on her father...

“Lungs, mostly, fevers, strange little drifting moments, sudden rages,” Aegon sighed. “Insanity is known to run in the family, so it doesn't shock anyone, it's just damned inconvenient.”

A mad father who liked young women, a mistress who was alarming around an exceedingly pretty seventeen-year-old, and something that hurt the girl that no one spoke of, enough for her to flee family and friends.

“You think he raped her,” Stephen said.

“I do,” Aegon nodded. “The bastard keeps asking after her, every so often, like he forgot she left. If I knew... I don't know what I'd do, but without her admitting it, it's just an unanswerable question. I'd like for her to feel comfortable coming home- Mother's health isn't the best, either, and she misses her.”

That rattled around in the back of his mind throughout the conference, though he did find some of the presentations fascinating. And his own went quite well, which would make the hospital board happy enough with him.

Though there was those two idiots from Yale with their chimpanzees. And that asshole from Portugal who agreed with them. (There had been a long, surprisingly rewarding conversation with a Hungarian doctor who was looking into moving somewhere westward, who spoke fairly decent English but more French. A man from the south of France had interjected when he realized that, and a Spanish man who was muttering utterly obscene things about Fulton's shortsightedness and was surprised when Stephen responded in the same language.)

The question of why Rhaenys had fled had stuck with him. He wasn't sure what had happened, but he was increasingly sure that Aegon bringing it up had been because, for whatever reason, he didn't want Stephen around his sister.

Surely he realized that Stephen wasn't the one keeping her away?

Maybe he thought Rhaenys had told him, and he just wanted an answer after all this time. He was three years younger- a fourteen year old would be old enough to know something was wrong, but not old enough for Rhaenys to have confided in.

He wouldn't confront her about it- he'd mention that Aegon had tracked him down, but avoid the accusations. She'd tell him more if she wanted to- if there was more to tell.

No matter what, the day before he headed home, he headed back to the jewelry shop. It wasn't empty today- there was a couple gazing at rings.

The ring was still there, with lacy gold and and rubies that seemed to catch the light and form a twisting row of sparks. It was lovely and he could imagine her wearing it.

“That one?” the manager asked.

He nodded. He didn't need to give it to her, he reasoned. But he'd rather have it for when he did decide. Otherwise... his taste would undoubtedly be a bit more towards an enormous diamond. Rhaenys liked her flashy things in patterns.

And if someone was watching him... well, let Aegon wonder.

  
  


~

  
  


_**April 3rd, 1939** _

  
  


Sofia had not brought any dresses suitable for a Hollywood party, and was several inches taller than Rhaenys.

“To be fair, I think most people who aren't children are taller than Rhaenys,” Stephen said, smirking down at her.

Rhaenys, who was in stockings and therefore possibly didn't pass five feet, had looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded, and prepared to call Marei Grey. She looked up from the brass telephone for a moment. “Wong, do you object to a suit?”

“I would rather not,” he said, then added, “I have some things I can gather,” and she nodded and made the call.

“Right, well, this isn't San Simeon or one of the nightclubs- it's technically hosted by this new young man named Howard Stark, a terrible flirt but sweet enough.” Her grin turned slightly wicked. “If only because he does annoy the other inventor named Howard...”

Stephen, who remembered Rhaenys' amused letters about Howard Hughes attempting to flirt on and off with her, grinned.

“How did that go?” he asked.

“...This bothers no one?” Wong asked, curiously.

“Oh, if I thought she'd actually slept with someone after we decided it was serious, much less married, I would be livid, and I'd deserve to be tossed out without a scrap if I did it,” Stephen said. “I also met her while she was trying to hide with a book in the middle of a party.”

“I like people,” Rhaenys said, smiling at Wong. She'd mentioned that Hollywood was even more bizarre than New York had been for her. Coming from what would need to be a fairly isolated place... “I do not like drunken people. I also do not like the sort of people who think that because I wear a dress, I must be willing to fuck them and put my career in their hands. Stephen has many, many faults...”

“Hey,” Stephen interjected.

“So do I,” Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “I'm vain and isolate myself and try too hard to be nice in fear of it ruining my career.”

“Also bossy,” Stephen pointed out.

She shot him a look. “Arrogant, insufferable, reckless... but he is not the sort of person who would think that I need to give up all my dreams to fawn over him. And he's never assumed he knew how to manage my career better than I did.”

“Some fawning would be nice,” Stephen said.

“What, last night wasn't enough?” she asked, eyes wide and not looking at Wong, who was burying his face in his hands.

“Point, point,” he smirked. “I think I hear Marei coming up the drive.”

“Bella's driving,” Rhaenys said, cocking her head to hear better and wincing. “There goes the fence.”

Sofia pulled the curtains open. “It looks intact.”

“So far,” she sighed. “It's the exit I'm worried about.”

Marei was at the door far too soon, smirking faintly and holding a dress bag. “Rhaenys, I heard your husband had returned.”

“You lost your bet, then?” Stephen asked.

Marei raised a pale eyebrow. “I hope I wasn't expected to bring him anything.”

“It was good of you to bring the dress, I can do the hemming...” Rhaenys said, making to take the dress from her arms. “And Stephen has a suit from when he was last here, I hardly threw them out, and he's not going to be on-screen.”

“That attitude is why you have people to pick your outfits,” Marei sighed. The blonde woman looked up at Sofia, who was looking at the bag nervously. “Well, you were right in your guess. It shouldn't take much, and the dress was passed over by a woman who would be lucky to wear it.” She shot Rhaenys a look. “And what are you wearing?”

“Vionnet, the indigo one that looks as if it has scales,” Rhaenys waved a hand. “Do you think I should wear the citrines?”

“Emeralds,” Marei said, looking her over. “I trust he remembers which one I mean?”

“I think she can choose for herself,” Stephen said, but he did remember the necklace in question.

Admittedly, that might have something to do with a memorable instance of her wearing it and nothing else. It would be interesting to see if she'd pin her hair up that way again.

“Hopeless,” Marei sighed again, before handing the dress bag to Sofia. “Put it on, I want to see.”

Sofia ran from the room, as if worried Marei would remove her clothing and force her to change in the entranceway.

Given Rhaenys' speculation that she was Tyrion's half-sister... probably.

“You should check your dress, as well,” Marei pointed out. “Your hair takes forever to dress.”

“I'll be fine,” Rhaenys rolled her eyes, but heading upstairs anyway.

And they were, arriving at the house at about the middle of the pack.

“Are we sure that they are going to be here?” Sofia asked. The shockingly blue gown leaned more towards the simple, if you ignored the folding sort of border around the edges of the low back and up the sides.

Wong seemed to think it was very nice, Stephen thought, judging by the way he'd gotten very tongue-tied and kept staring out of the corner of his eyes. He'd gotten clean clothing, and seemed to look challengingly at Rhaenys, who had smiled and muttered something probably irritated in Persian. But it was very sweet in tone, and so he let it lie. Especially because she was in fact wearing her hair the same way she had last time he'd seen the emeralds.

“I've seen Tolliver show up to one of these parties when he had go and vomit every thirty minutes,” Rhaenys said, frowning. “Unless this somehow makes him curl up and hide...”

“No, it shouldn't,” Stephen looked at the party. “Terminal burrowing doesn't seem to be a symptom, which is actually fascinating, when you think about it... Carole's idea?”

“She wanted to celebrate the film being over, celebrate how smoothly her marriage is going, and smooth over rumors about Clark's film- Gone With the Wind,” she added, smirking a bit.

“I see,” Stephen said, hoping she understood that he didn't, and hoping that she wasn't too annoyed because it was in her letters.

He really doubted it was. She wasn't prone to gossip, and while she would answer his questions... he hadn't asked all that much.

“There has been a great deal of drama on his film, she's shaky in her career, and they finally eloped a week or so ago, in a gap in filming,” Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “It's sweet, except for his inability to keep himself vertical around other women.”

“Is infidelity that common here?” Sofia asked, looking about.

“I... well... possibly? Everyone marries to try and gain control of their lives, and they sometimes rush into it, and that means mistakes,” Rhaenys offered. “Or decide that all of the artificiality and publicity means they should live however they can. It's complicated, messy, and it can be the most difficult part of living here.” She gave a slightly rueful smile. “So no worrying about a pretty sorceress back at your base?”

“None of them would have him, even if he was interested,” Wong said, smirking faintly. “Besides, he kept speaking about you whenever he was asked about his previous life. At length. It made a few people nauseous.”

She shook her head, but was blushing faintly. “Oh, look...”

“Can we only be here as long as we need to?” Stephen asked her in a whisper.

“Gladly,” Rhaenys said, looking back over her shoulder at him. “Same rules as usual?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Though I have a trick or two to make it easier.” He winked as she was taken off by some blonde he didn't recognize.

He mostly stayed at the edges, speaking with a few people who recognized him, and a bemused man who pointed him away from the more virulent of the gossip columnists.

Not, he hoped, that they would no him by sight, but if they did recognize him somehow, he didn't want them to try and ruin Rhaenys' career through him.

It was how he ended up with a fizzy lemon drink with no alcohol and listening to a bundle of studio execs.

“Tolliver swears by her,” one of them said. “Says she can predict the future or create opportunity through her fires.”

“Swears Harlow would have been saved by 'em, too,” another, more liquered up one, said. He also did not seem quite as convinced.

Got it, Stephen thought, bemused. They might actually have to stay longer, unless he wanted to do some acting of his own to convince them he really wanted nothing more than to be locked up in the grounds of the cottage with no one else around.

Well, that was hardly acting. But he wanted to finish stopping the murders first.

“And she claims that Targaryen fellow as a reference, and everyone knows he's been going mad as a hatter,” came a third voice, bemused and younger than the rest. Quite young- the Stark man that Rhaenys had mentioned?

Wait, Targaryen? What did he mean by that?

“Targaryen, where do I know that name?” the first asked.

“Irene Martell's father,” the Stark fellow offered helpfully. “You know, the doll one with the big eyes and the mouth?”

“Frigid bitch,” one of them muttered.

No, no she wasn't, but she might very well be lying to him. That would be Wong's suggestion, he knew. However well they were getting along, that would be too much of a possibility for him.

“What's her name, again? The red bitch, not the one who thinks she's too good for Reynolds,” the drunken one asked.

“Melisandre,” the first man said. “Never got a last name, but you can't exactly miss her, can you?”

“You can't,” the third agreed.

He slunk off, wondering if anyone else had found anything.

Wong found him, glaring at a woman who had clearly had too much of something. Strange looked around, and raised an eyebrow at a waiter who could double for a strong man.

He obligingly whisked the woman away.

“It's not a bad thing,” Stephen offered.

“What isn't? The drugs, what she said to me, or this entire... party?” Wong looked dubious.

“The music is good,” Stephen countered. “But not enjoying this isn't bad. Probably the most sensible reaction you could have.”

“But you and your wife both do it,” Wong pointed out.

“Yes, because her job requires it, and because a friend is the one hosting it,” Stephen pointed out. “Have you found anything?” Wong looked around. He was attracting some odd looks, but no one would be openly rude to Irene's guests, especially when she was speaking cheerily with the King of Hollywood and his new wife.

Who was waving in his direction. And Tyrion Lannister was walking over to them.

“Come on and I'll tell you,” Stephen said, forcing a smile. “I overheard some men talking about our man, and I think the person responsible might be a woman named Melisandre.” He paused, before adding, “Apparently, she was quite close to Rhaenys' father.”

Wong's expression was somewhere between skeptical and worried. “Can we trust Rhaenys, then?”

“She and her father... they haven't spoken in over a decade, and she loathes him,” Stephen said. He wouldn't tell Wong the details and speculation, not if he didn't need to. Like Wong deciding that Rhaenys was a demon and that Stephen was too blinded to see it. “So yes, I trust Rhaenys without a doubt.”

 


	6. Believing or Disbelieving Things

_The thing about Irene is that she was a bitty thing, quiet and all polite even she was spitting mad- probably especially when she was spitting mad. Then Irene looked at you- really looked- and those big purple eyes lit up and that smile lit your bones up and you felt like everything was fixable, like if you talked it through with her, everything would work out. Then you had Stephen- he was an arrogant son of a bitch, who seemed like he looked right through you. Then there was a problem, and he sighed, and... he wasn't a total asshole, all the time. And he looked at Irene, and somehow it all clicked. They kept each other from burning out, I think..._

_-Serenei Rogare, Interview for her biography, 1954_

  
  


**_ February 1936 _ **

 

Rhaenys had clearly decided that he was going to live, even if he wasn’t sure it was worth it. Shortly after he’d gotten past the first wave of shock, she had taken over in a cloud of lavender and charm, smiling and charming the nurse who'd been naive enough to think he'd want to see his records. Which, admittedly, probably kept him alive, because his temper didn’t even have a fuse at this point.

She’d also taken his shows of temper with ease, though that might be the fact that the cup he had thrown at her had instead landed on the side of the mattress and spilled water all over him instead.

“I can speak with a realtor for you if you’d like, though you’ll need to have a lawyer deal with the paperwork, and Tyrion can probably find me… I’ll ask the studio, I might end up involved in a police investigation if I ask Tyrion for a lawyer or a realtor,” she said, looking up from her current stack of paperwork. A lock of her hair had come from its twist, and swayed along her collarbone as she moved. A week ago, he could have brushed it aside easily. Now, the thought of moving his hands sent spikes of agony through his arms.

“A realtor?” he asked.

She blinked, stifled a yawn, and he noticed the shadows under her eyes. She’d done her full cosmetics routine, so he was willing to bet that they were even worse under the powder. Hadn’t she slept? “I… may have… oh, shit,” she muttered, pinching her nose. “Right. Can we forget my idea for a bit? I wanted to bring up the idea gently.”

“I have nothing but time to listen to your plans for me,” Stephen pointed out, feeling annoyed at the way she was backing off. Sweet Saint Irene, Myranda had called her. Never wanted to hurt anyone if she could help it, even the ruined lover.

“I was thinking that, since you might need a home base for therapies, and I do have a shooting schedule…” she bit her lip. “I was going to look into doing theater here more, before everything. But New York is cold, in winter, and the weather might be better to help you recuperate. You could stay with me while you sort everything out.”

“Were you going to ask, or just bundle me along in a plane while I was too drugged out to notice?” he asked, trying to sit up. It was a notice of how badly he'd been reacting that she didn't try to help him.

“I was going to ask- honestly, I stashed my belongings at your place, since I wasn't going to need a hotel room while I was here anyway, but I... I want you home with me?” she bit her lip, looking far less certain than he was used to. Which made everything worse- she was supposed to be the reliable one. “I was... with everything, I've been getting a bit more interest in theater work. The directors here aren't as bound up in the production code, and I was going to bring up the idea of my moving before, but...” she pulled a face, and she shook her head, sending more hair to fall from its knot. “I still have some time left on my contract, and there are other things I might do, to say I did them, so it was a question for two years from now, since I'm doing remarkably well, all things considered, but then I got the call as I was leaving...”

“You were thinking of leaving Hollywood?” Stephen tilted his head. “I suppose you can't count on me as a safety net, anymore.”

“Stephen,” she said, spine straightening and a hint of fire in her eyes- he wondered if the morphine was hitting him oddly, the lights were glittering a bit too much- “I would respectfully point out that I am independently wealthy. As in, I could live comfortably on what I have now. If I wait for my contract to finish, and if Tyrion's clauses are as good as he claims, and I have a moderate success in selling short stories and articles, then I can live very comfortably indeed. I do not need you for finances. I need you because you are important to me. Because, for reasons you are clearly trying to make me forget, I love you and enjoy your company and was hopeful about what I might have with you in the future. I continue to be hopeful, but we both need to work with the idea that it is going to be a different course. I still want to continue. Do you? Or was I just someone that you could show off so you could let everyone know how successful you are?”

Part of him- aching everywhere, snappish, and still reeling from the realization that one spin, one moment of exhaustion when he shouldn't have been driving, he should have been home preparing for this, that he'd been so anxious and trying to talk himself out of what he'd been planning- that wanted to say yes, that was all she was, did she really think that she was more than a pretty face? It wanted to drive her away, let himself sink into misery.

But the part that won was the part that sank back, sighed, and said, “I knew I was going to fuck this up.”

She blinked. “...That is terribly unhelpful as an answer, you realize?”

“It was in my jacket,” he sighed. “I don't know where they went and put it...”

Baffled, she pointed to a chair near the little window. “Right there? You weren't wearing it, when you... when they found you, the driver who found you, he tossed it over you when he realized you were still alive.”

“Could you get what's in my pocket out?” he sighed. “If it's still there?” If West or his nurse hadn't pocketed it- not that they likely had, but...

He could formulate a better chain of logic when he was off the morphine.

He could see the faintly puzzled furrow between her brows when her fingers hit the box, which meant that even ruining his life didn't lose it. After that and half a year, he figured it might be fate.

“Open it,” he said, cursing the bandages and his own stupidity and whatever West had chosen to do. “I was going to... I had a plan, for this week.” He snorted. “We saw how that turned out, but I can manage this, in a way.”

She opened the plain little box, made of pine wood with a faint metallic impression. “What's this... oh.” She held up the ring, the rubies seeming to have a faintly dimmer glint then they had in his apartment, before he went on his drive.

“It was a stupid idea,” he said, trying to convince himself. “With my usual awful timing...”

“Yes,” she said, slipping the ring on her finger, holding out her hand with a smile curling at the ends of her mouth, looking at him as if she was forgetting where they were. He'd been right in that, at least- she adored the pretty little thing, and it seemed to fit her like it had been designed with her in mind. She shook her head, looking at . “That is... this is an engagement... this is what I think it is?”

“I was going to ask you to marry me- I hadn't quite worked out the logistics, yet,” he admitted. “But I picked it up in London, last summer, and... I was tired of carrying it around.”

She seemed to understand what he actually meant. “We'll work it out,” she said. “And I am sorry, for making plans like that.”

He sighed, because he could predict the immediate future of his career, including how he was most likely going to be asked to resign before he was released. “It's the practical thing to do.”

He sent her out to get something to eat- he wanted to send her to his place, to sleep, but the stubborn set of her jaw meant he'd need to wait on that.

But Nicodemus West was there, opening his door the second that she stepped out. “She's really something,” he said, shaking his head. The blonde man, who was unimaginative and passive and reckless in his unthinking... who had damn well fucked his hands to hell and back... was watching him as if expecting him to be pleased. “I spoke to her, when she first got in- she had a cup of black coffee as big as the ones the night nurses drink, looking like she just traveled off a plane. She was wearing those absurd trousers and everything.”

Stephen knew those trousers well. “She probably had gotten off a plane. I think she wanted to get her pilot's license, but the studio was too angry at the idea for her to try.”

If he focused on Rhaenys, perhaps he wouldn't make a scene. Besides,she would be annoyed if he mentioned that the pilot had flown her had probably been both female and a former fling. He knew Rhaenys believed in supporting female pilots, had since she'd researched for a movie she'd been in, and since they were bound to be extraordinarily good to manage to get their license, he was a bit less worried that way.

That she had been close to two or three... well, he was a man who knew exactly how beautiful and flexible his fiance was.

It wasn't exactly an awful mental image, though he was smart enough not to mention that to her.

West blinked. “That explains how she got here so fast, I suppose. Good for you she did, really. She swept in a bit after I finished surgery, spoke with the state police to make sure your things were all released, did the polite English lady routine and made sure that you were comfortable as possible.”

And that none of the nurses smothered him in his sleep, which would be exactly how she would put it when he asked.

Uncomfortable with the silence as Strange tried not to start shouting- the lovely cloud of drugs was blunting his temper at this point, which was good, as he couldn't physically get up and strangle West right now-, West continued. “Yes, Miss Martell stayed with you for most of it- there was one of her friends who came in and kept an eye on you, some artistic type who forced her to get some sleep the second night, after you improved.”

Probably, he mused, Serenei Rogere, who was the most likely pilot to New York. Kind of her to worry, he told himself. Maybe Dancy, if she was in the city. No one would mistake Mya for an art type.

“But as I said, your condition improved quite a bit after she arrived- we were worried about pneumonia, or an infection settling in, but any sign went away that night,” West continued, before pausing, and, with an attempt at delicacy, asking, “You didn't.. fight, did you?”

“I didn't drive her away,” Stephen said, feeling the anger rise a bit. “She just went to get dinner. Now, I want you to explain exactly what you did to me...”

West turned gratifyingly green. “The best I could.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Stephen gritted out. “Now, _explain_.”

  
  
~

  
  


**_ April 4, 1939 _ **

  
  


Mya had glared at him as she walked out the door with Rhaenys, who bit her lip. She'd returned from a visit to her mother's that morning, and Rhaenys had needed to talk her down from flattening him.

“I will probably be gone until six- I know the photographer, she's a pro who likes her deadlines. If you want, I can call and cancel...” she offered, seeming to shrink into the bronze wrap. The dress was pretty, patterned with tulips, and was something he knew to be one of her dresses she liked using as a form of armor.

Mya raised her eyebrows and clearly wanted to tell Rhaenys not to be an idiot. Stephen regretted that Mya was furious at him- they both wanted the same thing, which was for Rhaenys to be happy, and he'd gotten the knack of keeping on her good side. Which had been practical- he knew for a fact that the woman had a haymaker that could knock a grown man flat. But she was also someone whose opinion Rhaenys' valued.

“It'll be fine,” Stephen said. “I really don't want to deal with Tyrion complaining at me.”

Rhaenys seemed to relax at that. “He'll be doing that anyway- he knows I was thinking about stopping for a while. Plus, I did ask him to see if he could find out where Melisandre is staying- he has contacts I don't, after all.”

Before anyone could react to that extraordinary statement, Mya pulled her out the door.

Sofia turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Did you know that she was going to leave her career?” The curator looked baffled. “From what I understood, that is... not uncommon, but something usually provokes it.”

“Maybe she missed Strange,” Wong said, frowning slightly.

“The doubt in your voice fills me with so much warmth,” Stephen said, shaking his head. “I know she wasn't intending on staying here forever- I think she wanted to do scaled back stage shows after a while, maybe switch to writing. She's been hemmed in more and more ever since the production code started being enforced.”

“But she is tied to this Melisandre,” Sofia said. “Stephen, I hate to be the one to point this out, but even if she and her father no longer speak... are you certain that she wouldn't want to reconcile?”

Stephen shook his head. “She refused attempts to get her to go home before. Besides, you saw her in Maria's home. She wasn't faking that.”

“She is an actress, or she could simply not have seen the effects of Melisandre's magic since she left her home,” Wong pointed out. He settled on the couch with a book Stephen knew wasn't one of Rhaenys, meaning the other man must have opened a portal to his library. “Or, she could not be Rhaenys at all, but instead any number of demons using her body. The fact that she does not look seventeen does limit our options...”

“Why didn't you check, then?” Stephen asked, knowing Wong had a point. Rhaenys was hiding something, or multiple somethings.

“I'm not the one with all the power,” Wong said, faintly mockingly.

“I'm not the one with all the books,” Stephen said, pointedly ignoring all the books he had “borrowed” from the library. He'd returned most of them. “But...” He frowned, and smiled, just a bit. “I have a small problem with that theory.”

“And what is that?” Sofia asked, head tilted. “Becuase Stephen, why wouldn't she tell...”

“...Quite a few reasons, but Rhaenys was always rather bad at expressing when she was upset with anything, or if there was a problem,” he said. “More to the point, if we accept that Melisandre is behind the string of deaths, which does fit with all the facts we have at this point...”

“It does,” Wong said, before nodding. “Ah, I see.”

“Whatever happened, it was almost certainly what made her flee to New York,” he continued, because he really did want to drive this point home. “Whatever creature Melisandre is harboring or working with, it tends to kill all of its hosts within a week, and seems to have an effect on the host for some time before that, correct?”

Sofia nodded. “Ah. So unless it is a completely different sort of creature, why is Rhaenys not showing a single symptom? She hasn't been so much as complaining of a headache since we arrived.”

Except, a tiny point stuck in his head, she had been unaccountably ill after he left, and she refused to go into more detail other then that she'd fallen ill. Hell, maybe he'd ask Tyrion- he probably would need to give him a large amount of alcohol, though.

There was a knock at the door, and Stephen looked at the door, and wondered absently if Rhaenys knew that asking Tyrion to look into something would result in the man coming with a very large bodyguard.

Stephen opened the door.

“Well,” Tyrion said, with the expression of a man confronted by a very disturbing mess, “the rumors are true, and you decided to grace us with your presence.”

Stephen looked down his nose at the other man, knowing that if he shouted, it would just make the other man satisfied. “You know, Rhaenys told me everything was fine. I wrote. I am, if not back to the state of function I was before the accident, in a much better place. If there is something that she did not tell me about, then how the hell am I meant to be held responsible?”

Tyrion opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Well,” the other man looked amused. “I suppose you have a point. You are still a professional pain in my ass.”

“I think he just enjoys it,” Wong offered.

“Or people could be useful,” Strange said, dryly. He thought he was behaving wonderfully, given the situation.

“Right, you need to find this Melisandre,” Tyrion said. “Anything with your wife, you talk to her about.”

“Tyrion,” Stephen didn't need to continue.

“Tying her to the bed until she talks would be acceptable- she has enough of those silk scarves floating about,” Tyrion offered.

Sofia snickered, then blushed a bit at her own daring. “It does seem to match their relationship.”

“It does,” Tyrion said. “Surprised the hell out of all of us, but I suppose everyone is entitled to a lapse in judgement. Your priestess- and Strange, did you know that this crazy bitch was Papa Targaryen's mistress?”

“I figured that out,” Stephen said, settling on the chair. “Rhaenys knows that I know.”

“Is she going to do something to hurt Rhae?” Tyrion asked, looking at his bodyguard.

“You hired me to protect you,” the man said, unruffled. “Not some bit of fluff.”

“She makes me a lot of money to pay you with, Bronn,” Tyrion responded, before looking at Stephen. “Well?”

“We don't know,” Wong said. “It is a possibility, but we don't know enough yet.”

“That isn't going to happen,” Tyrion said, very carefully.

“Rhaenys will not be happy if you put her in a position to be blackmailed,” Stephen said. “And using a mob hitman would do that.”

“She's taking shelter in a mansion up in Laurel Canyon,” Tyrion said. “I have the address. Be careful. I'm not... like I said, Rhae makes me a lot of money, I don't want her hurt like that again.”

“I understand.”

If only he could figure out what she was hiding- he was starting to have a sinking suspicion that if they didn't find out what it was soon, it would blow up in all their faces.

 


	7. Unclean, Unclean

 

_Weirdest conspiracy theory- that there was a Satanic Cult operating in Hollywood in the late 1930s. Which doesn't actually sound all that weird- all sorts of weird shit happens in LA- but there was a couple of people who died of "spontaneous human combustion" in 1939, and a lot of "insider gossip" suggested that this was linked to some pre-hippie alternative religious leader called Melisandre. There's a lot of speculation that this comedy actress might have been involved- her career ended when the deaths did, and her dad was definitely linked to it._

_-Ask Reddit, "Weirdest Conspiracy Theory you can't quite explain away?"_

  
  


_**February 1936** _

  
  


Rhaenys was in the bedroom, biting her lip and dressed in nothing but one of his old robes, the green fabric pooling around her ankles. She looked up at him, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I had a speech,” she admitted, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “It was very nice, very polished, and borrowed a bit. But I don’t…” She shook her head, then steadied. “Take off your clothes.”

He wasn’t quite sure what to say about that, but she was just looking at him, expectant. A loose end of belt was wrapped around her hand, and she unlooped it and waited.

She made a “go on” gesture after a minute. It showcased her wedding ring, the one he'd bought in a rush when she mentioned that it might be a good idea to marry before coming to California, making it a fait accompli. It had been a small, hurried affair at a Catholic church, which was primarily attended by actors, which would please his aunt when she found out. She'd rounded up Rachel and her family as witnesses, and a pilot friend of hers, and there had been the French doctor he had met in London, who was in town and had heard about his accident. She'd worn the green dress from the premiere of _Queen of Tashkani_ , a choker of emeralds at her throat, and the hopeful look on her face was about the same as the one she had now.

Gingerly, he pulled off the sweater and undershirt first- she’d read his charts, he had no doubt, had charmed the nurses into as much detail and advice as she could. The bruises had faded, mostly, with some faint mottling under his ribs, which were more visible than he’d like. A few scars were there besides his hands- a slightly raised one over his collarbone, a healing cut where a larger piece of debris had burrowed in, and paler dots from where glass had been dug out. He tossed the clothes in a corner, trying to still his hands over his still covered thighs.

She marched over, the front of the gown opening to show glimpses of leg. Her eyes, though, had gone wide, looking at the marks.  “I nearly lost you. That call… I lost it, for a moment. Mya had already arranged the flight, thankfully, and Serenei kept me from going completely mad.” She raised herself a bit, to place a kiss on the mark over his collar. His focus seemed to consist only of where she was touching him, the burning press of her lips and the ghostly touch of her hand on his chest.“I’d almost managed to convince myself that this was casual before that. We lived on different coasts, we were so easy with it, and then thinking that you might be gone…” She shuddered, and he carefully placed an arm around her. “I said take off your clothes, darling, not take off your shirt.”

“That’s a bit hard now,” he said, and he felt more than heard the giggle.

“May I finish the job, then?” she asked, shaking her head against him.

“Of course,” he moved a bit, looking down at the way the dressing gown gaped as she knelt to deal with the buttons.

No real damage there, though he was grateful he’d spared himself the indignity of a union suit, with how much he was trying to avoid finicky things while his hands healed.

“I’m going to, well,” she smiled up at him, and that wild look in her eyes had shifted, making him aware that she was on her knees and somehow as his trousers came down, her nails were lightly dragging down his legs. “I am right here, after all.”

He could still wrap his hands in her hair, her curls dark against his hands, which had just came out of their wrappings today, as she started a trail of featherlight kisses down the bottom of his chest and continuing her way down.

“I will be happy to… to reciprocate,” he managed, “when this is done.”

“I need to work harder, then, if you could manage that,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice, before she was occupied in trying to make him forget everything but the movements of her mouth and clever fingers, and the feel of her hair against his aching hands.

He helped her to her feet, as she made her way back up. Both of them were leaning more than a little against the bedposts of her four-postered monstrosity, and he was wondering if he should remove the robe before continuing onto the bed, or if they could just make clean up easier by keeping it on.

“No scaring me like that again,” she said, and he snorted.

“I don’t think I could,” he said, before pulling a bit at the knot that hung between her legs, which was loose enough that he could manage it. “I don’t think I can drive for a while, at least until I can get my hands fixed.”

“Remind me,” she said, shimmying out of the robe, revealing that she was indeed completely naked underneath, thumb running over the pale lines on her hip, “that after your reciprocation, I need to ask Tyrion to help us evaluate physical therapists, as a start.”

He pulled his eyes up for a moment, startled. “You know, I was expecting you to be more dubious.”

“Carole was in a terrible wreck years ago,” Rhaenys said, pulling herself on the bed and crossing her legs over the side. “She had to do a lot of searching before managing to find a surgeon who fixed her face, needed to stay immobilized for ages, and she can emote better than most. It’ll be harder, I know, but I’m willing to believe that something can be done.”

He couldn’t help the smile at that, her complete and easy acceptance. He leaned over, managed to finish kicking off his pants, and kissed her.

“So, darling,” she said, shimmying herself up the bed, “If I was to tell you that I have the next few days off, and Mya is on vacation…” Her eyebrows waggled, just as he realized that she had posed herself so he could easily... reciprocate, without putting much pressure on his hands. “Perhaps I could show you around?”

“I might be amenable,” he said.

  
  


~

 

  
_**April 4, 1939** _

  
  


They confronted her when she walked in the door. She was removing her wrap, and frowned at their expression.

“What's wrong?” she asked, tucking it under her arm as she crossed the room. “I thought you said that there shouldn't be another death yet...”

“Melisandre is the sorceress who is causing everything,” Stephen said, as she settled into a chair. The words were spilling out. “And we know... we know she knows your father.”

  
“Are you sure,” was all she asked. She was sitting on the oversized armchair that had appeared shortly after he moved in, something that did not match the rest of her home but still was amazingly easy when he'd been bruised and battered. It was more than large enough for him to stretch comfortably, and Rhaenys looked swallowed by it.

She looked drawn, lips pale and thin, fingers drumming something he vaguely recognized. “I... I can see her doing something like this. Not that I saw her conjuring spirits from the vasty deep, or at least I don't remember her doing so... but yes, if you know she is here, I can see her thinking it is a price she would be willing to have others pay.”

“We'll need to know, to stop her,” Wong said, with more delicacy than he'd expected. “I recognize that this is painful...”

“Well, most of it is easy enough to track down,” Rhaenys said, and if her voice caught, no one commented. “My father is mad. He didn't appear so, not when he charmed Mother and her parents into letting them be married. He said it was destiny, that she was his perfect match. They had me within a year of the marriage, and Mother... it was hard on her. Harder than it needed to be, I suspect. But I was healthy, and that was all she cared about, especially as he didn't seem to mind that I was a girl. I don't think that Aegon was... he was too soon, for her, and the doctors said that there would be no more children.”

Stephen wasn't quite sure how this was relevant, but it did explain a few details about their relationship, how she'd been so tentative when asking if he'd wanted children.

“So he got very quiet, or so they said, and he politely ignored Mother as much as possible, unless it was to interfere in mine or Aegon's lives. I think she would not have minded, if there hadn't been so many rumors of divorce. When the Titanic... when we came to New York, Mother had learned that we had a half-brother, and that the girl was very ill as a result, dying about the time of the sinking. And Lyanna was a child herself, far too young,” Rhaenys shook her head. “Father charmed her. He is so very good at it, after all. But he did not charm her brothers, and they snuck the child away when my Father was bombarded with questions about if we had survived. He's never found them, not to my knowledge. They live in some remote place beyond his reach. It's a bit more complicated than that, but the relevant bits are that my father was determined to have a third child, and when he did, the child was lost to him.” Her hands stilled halfway through, before her nails dug into the armrests, knuckles white.

He could sit here, on the couch next to Sofia, or he could move Rhaenys over- it really was large enough that if she didn't mind a bit of indignity that he offer... something.

He started to get up when she continued. “Which lead to him trying to find the child, through a multitude of methods. Pinkertons, for starters, and other inquiry agents. Not all of them legal, after his diplomatic connections started to be suspicious. When I was... fifteen or so, in the fall of 1923, he met Melisandre.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Funny that I haven't realized it before, but that was about the age Lyanna was when he started his affair with her.”

Sofia leaned in, and even Wong's eyebrows rose.

“She promised him... many things, including that she would find my sibling. At least at first,” she said, and then she went silent for a long moment, eyes closed and face screwed up tight. Her shoulders were bunched up, and the last time she had been so upset...

Well, perhaps that had been when she'd told him to leave, that she understood, that she didn't want him to hate her for holding him back, just to write when he could.

Or perhaps it had been in the hospital room, when she had offered him all the support and her time and he'd thrown it back at her.

He got up, moving her to one side of the loveseat, as her eyes flew open and she looked at him... he couldn't quite place the emotion, but she wrapped her blazingly warm hand around his and closed her eyes again.

“Over time, she lead him to think that he needed three people for his... well, he never did properly explain it, or perhaps I didn't care to listen at the time, and when he did get my attention...” Her hand tightened around his. “Well, I shouldn't tell it out of order. But she convinced him that he did need three people- my father, Melisandre, and one of his children. She knew, I think, that even as mad as he was, he'd choose the daughter over the heir for what happened.”

“And what did happen?” Wong asked.

“I was very tired, I'd fallen asleep in the library with an old Gothic novel, and at first I'd thought I was dreaming, that it was just from falling asleep while reading. Someone was carrying me, and one of my shoes was loose- I think I might have started unbuckling it while I was falling asleep, and I remember the strap as it made it's way through the buckle, and when my foot hit the wall, and it was halfway off and it bothered me like mad, somehow. We were heading down steps- I knew that some of Dragonstone was built into the bedrock, and as a schoolgirl there was theories about smugglers or dashing privateers, but not... that wasn't what happened. Not that night.

“There was someone holding a torch- a proper flaming one, I could smell the smoke and damp stone smell, and the odd sparking noise, but the light was so unsteady... I might have blamed it on my dreams,” she said, and her hands made an odd gesture, a fist against her chest, knuckles pressing against someplace very near her heart.

She'd done it before, he vaguely remembered- winters in New York did it, or after the consults with various surgeons.

“There was a cellar, or a dungeon, I suppose, I remember thinking it must be a smuggler's nest, like my friends and I had wondered, but afterwards... it must have been part of the original building. There was a table, there, a great stone thing with dragons along the sides and bits of this strange dark metal that... there were other torches, they'd prepared the room before fetching me, they must have. Papa laid me down on the table, and kissed my forehead. It was cold- it was August, but it was underground and a bit damp, I could smell the saltwater and fancied I heard the waves crashing against the rocks. The table was so cold, it went straight through my frock and my mind cleared and I wanted to move.” She shuddered. “I wanted nothing more than to move.”

“He drugged you,” Stephen offered. It made sense, he supposed.

“He must have,” she agreed. “I couldn't speak, either, though I managed these tiny noises that would have embarrassed a kitten. Melisandre, she started chanting. I don't... I didn't recognize the words, I wanted her to stop, but she wouldn't, and my father... I was watching the ceiling, I saw her shadow seem to dance in the light across it, like something out of one of those wild contortion styles, and she went very still when my father picked something up. I could see a figure, I didn't know until... the knife, I think it might have been the same metal. It did the same sort of peculiar effect in the light.”

“Knife?” Sofia looked at her, brows knit.

“Yes, a long one, or at least it seemed to be... not quite as long as between his wrist and his elbow, I think, and my father is a tall man,” Rhaenys frowned. “Perhaps a shade under Stephen's height?”

“Do you remember anything else about it?” Wong asked.

“I remember... it curved- it looked like a cat's claw, or perhaps a little flatter, but not a sickle, more like a thorn, perhaps?” she frowned. “The hilt was plain, I believe- there were some other swords and daggers floating about the place, and it didn't have the loops and lace that I saw in some of those. But he was holding it, so I couldn't...”

“Who rescued you?” Stephen asked.

Everyone looked at him.

“Well, Rhaenys, you are alive. I can attest to the fact that you don't have a scar from a stab wound anywhere,” he added, thoughtfully.

“Or at least she didn't have one you could see,” Sofia murmured. It didn't seem accusatory, at least, but he couldn't help himself.

“No, no, she doesn't,” Stephen said, ignoring the slightly smug smile he knew was creeping across his face.

Rhaenys was blushing, but she seemed looser, and she was smiling, curved closer to his chest. “Stephen, behave.”

“You've known me for years, darling, you think I can behave?” he teased.

Wong muttered something about very forgiving women. In the company of her friends, she might very well have made a tart remark, but she merely shook her head right now.

“But how did you get out?” Sofia asked.

“I...” she frowned. “I've never been entirely certain, actually. I remember the knife going up, I remember my father saying something just before, but I woke up in my own bed and would have thought it all a dream, but my hair reeked of smoke, my mouth felt foul, and I had a scrape across my ankle. And there were... other things, changes in the way Melisandre spoke, a sort of... waiting period. I managed to make it until I was very nearly eighteen, and fled to New York. My father was furious.”

“Aegon suspected that something happened, but I don't think he knew any of this,” Stephen flinched as he realized what he said.

“Oh, I know what Aegon thought happened, and I almost believed he might be right,” Rhaenys frowned. “But I can speak from experience that I probably would have known, and... later had compelling evidence that wasn't... that he didn't...”

“What did Melisandre say?” Wong asked. “To make you suspect that she had done something that night?”

“I... it was hard to pin down, but she was testing me. Trying to force something, almost- I think she tried to push me down the stairs, but I didn't land badly enough to leave a bruise, even, just a bit of soreness. And there was a soup that... I was halfway through eating it when I saw her staring, like she was expecting something to happen. I remembered... that, and I made my excuses. I was a bit ill, but she seemed... pleased, to see me the next morning.”

“Poison?” Sofia asked, giving her a curious look.

“It was never admitted,” Rhaenys said, shaking her head. “I spent my time sailing to New York waiting for either the ship to go down or for Melisandre to walk right into my cabin and drag me back somehow. Then I tried my best to forget.”

“Did they ever try to force you home?” Wong asked.

He should know this- actually, he mused, he did know a few bits. “He was ill afterwards- Aegon mentioned that when I was in London.”

Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. “There was a conference in London, and I was asked to speak.”

“Really?” Wong managed to imbue a truly staggering amount of skepticism in the one word.

“I was,” he pinched his nose. “Remember, Rhae, I asked you if you could manage it, and you said the timing was awful and you had no desire to cross the Atlantic again?”

“I felt bad about that, but...” she shook her head. “I just couldn't.” She gave a wry smile. “Besides, I am truly _terrible_ on boats.”

“If I'd known this story, I wouldn't have asked,” Stephen said. “So do we think that Melisandre even cares that you are here?”

Rhaenys sighed and leaned more against him. “Can I please pretend that she doesn't? But I admit, I am curious. You would have thought that she would have chased me, at least, if she thought she did anything.”

“Perhaps whatever she did failed,” Sofia said, hopefully.

“I'm not so sure,” Stephen said, things falling into place. Tiny little things... things he hadn't quite noticed. “West, back in New York- he was certain I was developing pneumonia until you arrived, you know.”

“I heard the nurses, they said you were doing much better,” Rhaenys said, hand clamped around his wrist. “They laughed that I must be a good luck charm. I didn't think you'd want to hear that.”

“Oh, I wouldn't,” he said, imagining exactly what his reaction would have been. “Plus, I remember Serenei mentioning that you were the only one who didn't get ill when you were doing that film with the planes...”

“ _Angels of the Air_? Oh, yes, everyone was miserably ill, there were threats to rewrite the script so I was the heroine,” Rhaenys mused. “Perhaps you have a point- I don't think I've been ill since that night, and I did get the flu badly enough it damaged my lungs a bit.”

Stephen, who had heard her singing loudly enough to carry from the pool to the driveway, raised his eyebrows at that. Also because she'd never mentioned nearly dying.

“I could have just grown out of it, it happens, California is very good when there isn't smoke,” she protested, weakly.

“Also the time everyone in your hotel had their heat out and you didn't notice,” Stephen mused. Her rooms had been quite cozy, but she had merely smiled at the manager, agreed without a bit of protest to find new lodgings for the night, and stayed with him for the rest of her vacation.

“I suppose you might as well consider my entire career,” she said, very carefully.

“Oh, no, you are good enough on your merits,” Stephen said, before pausing. “Unless you mean the bit where...”

“I'd look ridiculous as a bottle blonde?” she laughed, a bit brittle. “God, I can't even manage with... with... _whatever_ this is in the long term.”

Then she went very, very still, free hand on her chest, and Wong looked at her cautiously, then at Stephen.

Who carefully looked, magically, and found a banked fire that was growing, the lavender and cinnamon-y scent of her perfume getting oddly stronger as the power seemed to pulse.

How had they missed all the signs?

“I am going to murder her,” she said, very coldly. “Stephen, darling, I know you might have questions for her, but I am going to strangle her with my bare hands.”

 


	8. Rise In Perfect Light

 

_The burning deaths in April 1939 were linked to a number of suspects, from the Black Dahlia's killer to an arsonist to Satanism. While they remain unsolved, there are a number of clues to look into. First, and the one more likely to cause screaming matches on Websleuths, is the number of actual victims. One theory holds that the killings started in Italy, and the killer kept heading east until something happened in LA. What exactly that was, no one is entirely sure of._

_Since the local police agencies have kept stating that there were no murders... kind of hard to tell._

_“Burning Stars”, Unsolved podcast, 2017_

  
  


** _June 1936_ **

“We don't have to go,” Rhaenys had said, gently. She was wearing her hair loose about her face, and the buttery gold of her dress made her look faintly luminous. It would be wonderful, but for the bit where his hands were having a worse than usual day, and he'd slept wrong, causing his shoulder to currently despise him.

“No, I don't want people to say that I'm shutting you away,” he'd snapped, and that had been that.

Entering the property, Mya giving him a sympathetic look as she got the door, he was regretting his pride. One of Rhaenys more... peculiar friends had made him the summer suit, and he was aware that it was rather looser than it should be- pain did not do brilliant things for his appetite, possibly because his mind linked them to migraines from overwork.

Possibly better for his vanity than the other way around, though considering how often Rhaenys had drug him into her pool...

“Did you even bring a swimsuit?” he asked.

“Sadly, this isn't the point of the party,” she said, eyes wide and tragic. “And why we shall leave as soon as it is polite. I grew up where rain and damp was the normal thing, my love. All this heat without concessions is awful.”

“You accepted the invitation,” he pointed out.

“And next time I shall insist on only going out after dark or to a place with actual water,” she sighed. “Myri will be furious if I soak the dress. Someone needs to speak with Myranda about her plans. Especially as I have no doubt that someone will decide to start swimming once the alcohol gets flowing.”

“We'll be gone by then, I hope?” he asked. He'd tolerated social events much better when he had his career and reputation to fall upon. Without it...

“I intend on it,” she said, shaking her head. “Perhaps you'll have fun.” She did not sound terribly hopeful.

“Irene, darling,” someone called.

“Mrs. Arryn,” she said, with a professional smile on her face.

Myranda swept in as if it had been choreographed, a very large engagement ring on her finger. “Not yet, not yet. You sly dog, coming in and convincing our Irene to marry you. Some people seem to think it's pity, but that isn't how it worked, is it?”

He glared, trying not to say anything or rub some feeling back into his hands, which were currently going pins and needles.

She rolled her eyes. “That was a compliment. Have a drink, it might actually make you sociable.”

He accepted the drink with a minimum of fuss, and gratefully walked over to a relatively quiet corner to contemplate what he was doing.

“Doctor Strange?” said a female voice, making him look up from contemplating whatever hideously colored drink had been shoved in his hands. While the idea of oblivion was appealing right now, he'd prefer not making a fool of himself in public, and not giving any more fire for the pitying or judging expressions some of the guests had.

“Yes?” he asked, sharply enough she winced.

The girl was moon-faced, both in her round face and the slightly green tint to her pale skin. “You are a doctor, right?”

He nodded, reflexively.

“And you are Miss… Irene’s husband, so she trusts you,” she said, bobbing her head in a way that might be to stimulate thought. “She wouldn't trust someone who gossips.”

“This is true,” he said, thinking. Yes, she was friends with Myranda, but he didn't think she actually trusted the woman, even now that she was engaged and set to eventually retire early. Her friends proper were usually those who weren't terribly loose in their words.

Perceptive of the child. Or perhaps singularly naive.

“You do realize my hands are injured, correct?” Not that she could miss it, the comments Myranda had made, but...

“You still know what I should be looking for,” she said, pulling herself a bit taller. There was no one in listening range, but he saw Rhaenys give him a questioning look. He smiled at her, and she continued talking with someone with... blue hair? “I'll pay you for it. Not a lot, because the... procedure is expensive, but...”

He looked at her curiously. “Ah.”

_Ah._

He wasn't... opposed, to the idea. His own childhood had convinced him that not everyone should be parents, and he wasn't sure if he and Rhaenys should try at this point.

He'd do a better job than his father, but that... wasn't precisely difficult, especially with Mya in the wings.

Though really, making it so this problem didn't occur in the first place...

“What do you need to know?” he asked.

 

~

 

The next week, he scowled and settled onto the chair Rhaenys pointedly refused to admit she'd purchased for him. “People are being idiots.”

“They always are,” she said, looking up from her book. “What is the issue this time?”

He held a copy of a medical journal in his hands. “He is wrong. Dangerously wrong. I want to prove it.”

Rhaenys smiled, gently. “Do you want a secretary?”

He scowled. “Well, if I continue to be asked basic questions by every foolish little girl in Hollywood...”

“And every foolish little boy,” she added, smiling innocently. She'd enjoyed the research he'd gone into with some of the questions. He did enjoy diving into subjects, and seeing him like this, even if it was motivated by spite, was better than the lost and adrift expressions she'd kept catching on his face.

It had helped with the lows after the lasted failed consultation.

“...I can possibly afford one, without worrying about taking money from you for any surgeries...” he said, thoughtfully.

“I could do it?” she offered. “If you don't mind listening to be discuss medieval literature?” Her smile grew faintly wicked. “You already have seen enough of my handwriting to know how it looks, but I have been told that it is tolerably readable.”

He pretended to give it thought. “I think that would be a fair trade,” he agreed.

  
  


~

  
  


** _April 4, 1939_ **

  
  


“Would magic or the car be safer?” Sofia asked.

Wong and Stephen looked at each other, weighing their options.

“I think I'd rather not be in the car if she notices us,” Stephen admitted. “It would be riskier.”

“If she knows we are coming already, then the car would just give us longer to prepare,” Wong agreed.

Rhaenys nodded at that, then went to upstairs.

“...do you know what she is planning?” Sofia asked.

Stephen shook his head, listening for her footsteps.

She came down a few moments later, dress swapped for beach trousers, sensible boots on her feet and a small revolver in her hands.

“I don't know if it will help, but I suppose I should at least be willing to try,” she said, thoughtfully. “Serenei took me to get lessons in how to use it, after you left. I suppose she thought I would be more vulnerable here.”

“Clearly not,” Stephen said, knowing that if she thought she was an awful shot, she would have offered it to someone else. Her pride ran deep, but not to the point of blindness.

“I have questions, either way,” she tucked the revolver into her pocket. “About what exactly happened to me, in Dragonstone. And what she intends on doing.”

No one really wanted to argue with the stony look on her face, as she got into the car. Sofia was driving- Mya was in her cottage around the back, and if she noticed the car missing, she knew one of their guests drove- he wasn't quite sure how Rhaenys had explained it to her friend, but maybe Mya just wasn't willing to get involved.

The drive to the house was quiet, with Stephen illuminating the map to ensure they got there safely. And perhaps a bit to take him mind off of things. Like Rhaenys' sudden rage. And Sofia's driving.

The home was a Tudor-style place that Rhaenys would later say was meant to mimic a smaller Hardwick Hall, back in England. The enormous sheets of glass were mainly dark, though there was a sullen red light from one of the wings.

“Well, hopefully that's her,” Sofia said.

“And not a trap,” Wong added.

“Ground floor,” Rhaenys mused, looking carefully about. “That matches my memories, I suppose. She had her rooms in Dragonstone on the ground floor, near the kitchens.”

“We can sneak in through the other wing,” Stephen suggested. “This way she'll have difficulty finding us- it doesn't seem like there would be anyone except perhaps our director friend.”

Wong nodded. “It's a remarkably good plan...”

“Coming from me?” Stephen grinned. “I'll have you know, I am quite brilliant.”

Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “Now, which of us can pick a lock?”

Stephen nearly rolled his eyes before remembering that while he knew how, he could not actually do it anymore.

“You never did get around to teaching me how,” Rhaenys gave him a rueful grin. “It would be terribly impressive.” She paused. “Now, I don't know terribly much about it, but would Melisandre know if you...” she made a little tah-dah gesture.

Wong looked around. “I think we're far enough away, but Strange, did you notice anything...”

“No,” Stephen said, looking at the french doors.

Sofia pulled out a thin knife, and flicked it through the cracks in the door. It opened slowly, and they all looked at her.

“We had a few incidents where private collections were never quite as safe as assumed,” Sofia said, sighing. “Poor fellow went straight into the rooms where my colleague was staying- very big fellow, he could probably carry any two of us under an arm. We figured out the how later, got a very generous donation of materials from it.”

“Right,” Rhaenys tilted her head. “I am very glad I do not have them in my home.”

“I would have said something,” Sofia said with a smile. “I do not feel comfortable sleeping with them anymore.” With that, she walked inside.

The house was faintly dusty, and the smell of smoke and sulfur made Rhaenys tense. There was some faint light from the moonlight, illuminating dustcover-obscured furniture and thick carpeting.

“This room must be stifling in the summer,” Rhaenys murmured. “Explains the doors- I'd want them open as much as possible as well.”

They exited the room, heading along what seemed to be a narrow hallway along the back of the home, covered in wavy panels of glass in a diamond pattern. It offered what was possibly meant to be a stylized view of the hills, but was quite eerie in the moonlight, with the smell of smoke growing thicker.

They came to a door where they could hear two voices- one low and feminine, touched with a faintly implacable accent that made Rhaenys reach for Stephen, eyes wide. The other was male, sounding aggrieved and more than a little frightened.

“Maria's dead, and you said that she would be fine, that she'd be better than fine, you fucking-” Tolliver, then, Stephen realized as the woman interrupted.

“Maria was not as strong willed as she claimed,” Melisandre said, cool and about as emotional as a glacier. “And there has been... an unfortunate complication, with regards to the person who can aid us.”

Wong looked pointedly at Rhaenys, who closed her eyes and muttered what Stephen suspected was a curse.

“Complication? What sort of complication?” Tolliver asked.

“Unfortunately, she has found herself... entangled with a group who opposes my order,” Melisandre said, as Tolliver let out a series of deep, hacking coughs.

“I'm not letting some stuck up bitch decide if I live or die,” Tolliver said.

“She is not aware of how fortunate she has been, and I have seen her in my fires, squandering the talent she is given on some frivolous pursuits, and hiding someone we need to find,” Melisandre said.

Rhaenys looked baffled in the half-light, but Stephen could have sworn for a moment he saw a flicker of something peculiar in her eyes, almost like light.

Possibly moonlight and perhaps something from whatever Melisandre was working on.

“Who is she, anyway?”

“The daughter of a man I helped before,” Melisandre said, as another round of coughing began. Stephen frowned- he recognized the worrying wet sound, and the smell of something damp burning was thicker. Tolliver was possibly lighter on will than he counted on.

“We should go in,” Sofia said. Rhaenys looked drawn but nodded, and Wong was watching everyone warily.

“Wh-what did you do to her, then?” Tolliver asked.

Stephen gathered up the remnants of a surgeon's detachment, ragged with disuse but able to let him prioritize. “Tolliver is a dead man walking- that would be blood coming up when he's coughing.”

“There looked like there was blood on Maria's mouth,” Wong agreed, lowly. “It damages the lungs?”

“Shh,” Rhaenys said.

“The Earl of Dragonstone wished to find his lost child- like my order, he was interested in the stories of the Long Nights, the times when the forces of death and the forces of life would be at odds, and he had reason to believe his three children would be the key to triumph. After much searching, it was decided that he had come to understand it incorrectly.” There was an undertone of frustration at that, and he had to wonder if Melisandre was angry with herself or with the Earl. “He was one of the three lights, the heads of the dragon, called upon to sacrifice something of great value.”

“...How peculiar,” Rhaenys said, voice clear and cold as she pushed open the door. “As I believe he didn't give a damn about me until you started talking about sacrifices. But then, I suppose you don't value truth over...” She paused. “I actually have no idea what your actual principals are, aside from an appreciation for burning people, manipulation, and stories about dead things.”

In the sullen light of the room, despite the fact that Melisandre was tall and imposing in her red robes with scaled armor underneath, surrounded by a doubled over Tolliver and braziers with embers emitting a steady supply of peculiar smoke, Rhaenys strode in the room and seemed to make it all seem a bit... lesser. A small figure, ordinary seeming except for the faint hint of bronze light that caught in her wild curls and along the edges of her form.

She smiled. “Melisandre, do I remember right? Do I owe you a knife to the throat?”

Wong and Sofia had gone off and Stephen frowned, before striding in after Rhaenys, who had an alarming grin on her face, one that changed the lines of it- though part of that might be the points of light where her freckles had been.

“Where is the third child?” Melisandre asked.

“Don't your fires should you?” Rhaenys said, steps shifting into a smooth prowl. She spared the still-coughing man a cold look. “Tolliver, darling, its not that I thought you had better taste, just more of a self-preservation instinct.”

“TB,” he muttered, hands pressed against his thighs as he tried to stay upright. There was a great deal of blood crusting about his mouth, and he looked sallow. “Dying men, desperate men.”

“I see,” Rhaenys said, turning back to Melisandre. “And what to you want with my poor maybe sibling? And why do you think I'd know where they are- or even if they are alive, to be quite honest.”

“You hid them from me,” Melisandre announced.

“...You do remember that I was in school when you originally got your hooks into my father- how was I meant to do that?” Rhaenys asked, head tilted slightly. “I've done nothing to hide them.”

Which is, they decided later, when everything went... weird.

~

“You lie,” Melisandre said, the dramatic coloring of her face and the wind tugging at her hair seeming to make her something out of a tale.

“I don't,” Rhaenys said, firmly. She could see Sofia's tall, slim form by the door, the other woman trying to pick the lock to a trunk. (Hadn't Sofia gotten involved because of a theft? Maybe she was trying to find whatever had been stolen?) Stephen was directly behind her, and she could almost feel the crackling energy- it was like being near a cord that was too worn to be entirely safe. Wong she wasn't certain about. Hopefully getting a good angle.“I knew it would be better not to look- why would I risk bringing some poor soul into my father's orbit? Besides all that, I thought you moved on from that particular theory.”

“I may have been temporarily lead from the correct path,” Melisandre said, “But your behavior clearly shows that you were nothing but false hopes.”

“The studios don't seem to think so,” she said, trying not to look at Tolliver, who was turning blue and smelling alarmingly like overcooked meat. “And what, precisely, did you expect from me? You drugged me, slit my throat-”

“I could not do that,” Melisandre said, as if she caught Rhaenys in a mistake.

“No, something deeply ritual and symbolic was happening, so you made my father do it,” Rhaenys said, grip tightening around the pistol. Shooting the woman now would be the easiest solution- less muss, less fuss, and no fanatical priestess spilling tales of what happened to a young lady in a castle out of a gothic romance.

It most likely wouldn't help Tolliver, though, and as long as he was breathing she couldn't bring herself to cause a reaction.

And she wanted to know what, exactly, had been done to her.

“You deride my beliefs and cavort with them?” Melisandre said, waving a hand at Stephen, who batted aside something that seemed to be made of shadow. With what looked to be a soft, pearly shield, and she would be asking questions once her nerves settled.

Which would most likely be much later. Perhaps next year, even.

“I cavort with my husband as I will,” Rhaenys said, jerking her chin up. “And you went about leaving a trail of bodies, so your moral judgments are a bit... suspect.”

Stephen moved his attention to Tolliver, just as the dying man's head went disconcertingly...loose.

He managed to jump back just before the flames burst from Tolliver's chest, and it possibly shouldn't have been reassuring that he looked as wild-eyed and shocked as she felt.

It also meant he wasn't so lost in all this that he couldn't have a human reaction, and that gave her heart, even as the flames went for her..

...and curled around her shoulders like a tame serpent. Tilting her head, it looked like nothing so much as a dragon carved from liquid fire, about the same size as a large cat.

Melisandre looked furious, which was just a bonus to not being burnt to a crisp. “How dare you?”

“You commanded something you had imperfect control over,” Rhaenys said, the pieces falling into her mind as if they always had been there. There was something frightening in that, she knew, in all of her rage and horror going so distant, of the certainty keeping her planted in the here and now. “That was the second time I am aware of you doing that. This doesn't seem to gone any better for you than your last attempt.”

“How dare you!” Melisandre, reaching for something as Rhaenys hurried to raise her pistol. "I have worked for longer than you can imagine, to find a protector of the living. How dare you make a mockery of that!"

Stephen leaped into the fray before she could, something seeming to uncoil from his hands in braids of light and sensation, and if it wasn't for the risk, she'd almost say it was pretty- Melisandre in swirls of red and shadow limned with bits of fire, Stephen in blue and multicolored light. They seemed to be at the point of dancing, or at least requiring a choreographer, neither giving way.

“Oh, how do I get you home?” she asked the flames, which continued to seem almost like a dragon the size of a large cat, draping itself along her shoulders, nose tickling her ear. It didn't seem vicious at all- she wondered if the problems were much like putting a cat under a blanket- it would try to force its way free.

A brazier was knocked over by something as she spoke, and the carpet caught too quickly, devoured by the eerie flames.

She stepped back, wanting to call a warning, but Melisandre shot a whip of shadow at Stephen's throat, and it took him a heart-stopping moment to dislodge it.

She closed her eyes and focused, wondering how those peculiar events of hers started. If ever there was a time to make them happen deliberately...

The flame-dragon licked at her ear, tickling, and she drew a circle in the air, a patch was in the air, made of nothing and formed from nothing in her mind- it was like a gap or tear, with no visible seam, just sudden difference and the gleam of stone and calls of creatures. Creatures much larger than her little companion, which let out a small croak and licked her ear again.

“Does that do?” she asked, hearing a crash not caused by the fight in front of her. Her knees might be knocking. 

It made a little chirp, and flew through the gate, and then the larger creatures were... talking at it.

Oh, dear, she thought. Melisandre stole a _baby_ to serve as her protector. And its mamas are furious. Hopefully the little fire spirit wasn't going to get all of them killed.

There was an unholy shout that distracted Stephen and Melisandre. Stephen, bless him, finally noticed the fire starting to devour the building. Which was not helped by the shout, which made the furniture quiver.

A long rope of flame caught Melisandre by the throat, dragging her through the hole, which then vanished.

Taking her answers with her.

“...Huh,” Stephen looked where the hole had been.

“We should focus on getting out,” Rhaenys said, hearing one of those french doors open and shut.

Something groaned and gave way in the next room.

  
  


 


	9. Chapter 9

_Okay, so, this is going to sound crazy, but I swear it actually happened. So, my cousin went to this club, and there was music, there was fruity drinks, there was dancing, that sort of thing, when this guy starts grinding up her ass. Like, he was trying for surprise anal grinding. Which, rude. She stepped on his foot, because she doesn't fuck with fuckboys. So she turns around..._

_...and dude had horns. Now, my cousin went upstate- yeah, that upstate- and so she knew it wasn't someone with the x-gene. Not that she knows everybody, but because she could tell he was something else._

_And he made some kind of move, and her heels changed from gold to red, and she started dancing and couldn't stop. It was terrifying, but she managed to get me, and she made a call to an old friend she knew from school. (Yeah, that school upstate.)_

_So then I take her still dancing ass down to Bleeker Street, which was just weird and I'm amazed she managed the stairs, much less not get murdered by someone on the subway, the way she was moving._

_So I think this place isn't real, because I don't see anything but the same construction jobs you see everywhere else. But my cousin manages to grab this door handle, and this place just shows up as a man tries to open the door. Now, he's basically Latino Vincent Price, right down to the voice, and he's looking at us, looking at my cousin's shoes, which were basically ballet slippers at this point, and..._

_...he just sighs, and makes a gesture, then asks what club we were at._

_My cousin stopped dancing, and her heels were back to normal. Fuckboy never bothered us again._

_-Reddit, “New Yorkers of Reddit, what's the craziest thing you still can't explain?”_

  
  


_**February 1937** _

  
  


Stephen's eyebrows went up, and he stared at the man dancing with Crawford. “That can't be.”

“Pangborn?” Serenei tossed back her drink. She was originally sitting next to Carole, when they started their night. But Carole had gone to teach a sort of madcap dance to a bunch of wide eyed young men, and Serenei had just returned from talking to some lovely girl with a dark blue dress. “Good pilot... Wait... that can't be.” She looked at the man, going ashen for a long moment. “How do you know him?”

“I was one of the surgeons he consulted,” he said, looking baffled. “I saw the injuries he had, the man shouldn't be able to stand.”

“Christ, I _saw_ the crash,” Serenei said, wide trousers rumpling in shocking pink and bird print as she moved to better stare at the man. “I thought he died at first- it was bad.”

“Cracked spine, shattered collar bone, left femur broken into marbles...” Stephen blinked.

“Did he have a twin?” Rhaenys asked, eyebrows knit together.

“Only child, his mother was a sweetheart, took care of him after the accident,” Serenei said, blinking. “They were down in Charleston, last I heard, but that was a couple years ago.” She looked nervous- he wouldn't put her as superstitious, but none of the man's injuries should have... even if one or two healed, those moves were impossible.

“She wasn't terribly pleased with me,” Stephen said, tilting his head as the man dipped Crawford. “She thought I was only refusing due to money, among other reasons.”

“Were you?” Carole asked, ignoring Rhaenys' baleful glare.

“Oh, I liked getting paid, and you are in no place to judge that,” he said, looking at her wryly before sipping his drink and scowling. “I think I lost my taste for alcohol. But there was nothing I could do- maybe if all medical research on spinal damage for the next few decades suddenly appeared in my brain fully formed he could have managed with a severe limp..., but the surgeon who saved his life did nearly as well as I could.”

Rhaenys sipped her water in a very pointed manner, looking about the club.

“West didn't do as well as he could have,” Stephen said. “But I have no doubt that in a few decades it would have been easier.” He stood up, leaving his mostly full glass on the table. “The song is winding down, if I'm not mistaken, and I would like to speak with him.”

Rhaenys, Serenei, and Carole looked at each other as he walked off. “He is serious?” Serenei asked, before scowling. “I mean, I heard about… how does that happen?”  
  


Rhaenys was thinking about mad eyes and silly bedtime stories. “I saw those charts- I was in New York, when he was looking into the case,” she said, in response to Serenei’s raised eyebrows. “And Stephen can let his work override all available surfaces. And I’m better with old poetry, but even I can see the big break lines when they are that obvious.”

“Do those surfaces he overrides include his wife?” Carole asked.

“Do you think I would let him?” Rhaenys asked, not giving her friends a chance to answer. “He’s been making cranky noises about harpies since he moved.” His hands were aching less then they would in New York, though, and that little six-month girl’s questions were starting to make his pride win out over his self-pity, though.

“That man doesn’t have a hint of a limp,” Sereni mused.

“Things like that don’t happen outside of a screenplay. A bad one, at that,” Carole pointed out.

Rhaenys watched carefully, feeling a trickle of ice down her neck.

  
  


~

 

“So he told you what happened?” she asked, watching him pace their study. He hadn't explained, hadn't wanted to in front of her friends.

He seemed to collapse into his desk chair, staring into space. “He said it was a place in Tibet, gave me the nearest city and directions.”

“You are certain he isn't trying to trick you? You weren't able to help him, and people can be spiteful...” she stopped as he seemed to focus, and focus on her. His expression was irritated, sliding towards the type of mood where he'd pick a fight just to fight.

“He couldn't manage a trick such as this one,” he said, scorn in his voice. “Given the damage he had previously, it would be a miracle if he could walk with a cane, much less dancing like that. He said he's going back into his previous profession.”

“He's confident in it, as well,” Rhaenys said, thoughtfully. “To be dancing in Cocoanut Grove with a woman like that. He was a pilot, before he crashed. A professional barnstormer. I heard one of the girls talking about it, before, but I didn't connect the dots when I saw your original look into his injuries.”

“The takeaway from this is that it means that the method is reliable, and my hands...” he stopped.

“You'd be able to go back to surgery,” Rhaenys said, carefully. “Would we be going back to New York, afterwards?”

“I'm not sure,” he admitted.

“You aren't sure?” she asked,trying to limit her questions. It wouldn't help right now, not when she was tired and feeling nauseous.

“If I could get an offer here, the weather is quite nice, though we'd need to decide... when I go, it would be for six months or so, according to Pangborn- but with different focuses...” he paused. “We'll discuss it then.”

She looked around the room- his desk, her desk, his loaded with medical journals and a teacup they needed to move, hers with secondhand Shakespeares, pens, and scrap papers. It was divided neatly between them, and the black and white tiles swirled pleasingly, and the warm almost-gold of the walls added warmth. Like the rest of her home, it had been changed to make it easier on him.

She was aware that he was going, no matter what. There was nothing to convince him to stay, and if it was true... she wouldn't be able to tell him no. He'd hate her- even if she convinced him it was a fraud, bitterness would spring up and ruin everything between them.

“We will,” she said, focusing on what he was willing to do, the fact that it wouldn't be forever, that he wanted to stay with her, after, before adding, “what do you need me to do?”

  
  


~

  
  


_**April 4-5, 1939** _

  
  


The building was burning, and Rhaenys' grip was like steel.

“Stay low,” she said, the fire reflecting in her eyes. Or perhaps something else- he wondered if it was just another sign of what had been done to her.

Of what she could make of it, now. He saw her other hand, pushed out, and the fire in front of her was receding.

“Where is...” he coughed, before remembering that he could, in fact, make a bubble for them to breathe easier.

She gave the soft red sphere a wary look, and her hand slid down his arm to intertwine with their fingers. “I saw Sofia near the back door, I think she's the one who got out, but I didn't see where Wong was.” She frowned. “Can't he make a door out, like the one that got us here?”

“If he was alert,” Stephen paused. They had frequently made allowances for Rhaenys and her unfamiliarity with magic, but... he opened a portal home. He'd shout until she took up studying it, just out of sheer pride and curiosity. And in the interests of whatever was done to her clearly involving fire. “Get through.”

“No,” she said, looking as if he had run mad. “You were the one who was coughing, you idiot, I can evidently move fire, which I am not thinking about just yet, and you saw...”

“I'll portal straight...” he paused, as Wong came into view in the house, looking amused. “Ah, well.”

“Worried?” Wong asked.

“That they'd think I murdered you,” Stephen said, stepping through with Rhaenys looking nervously behind them. “I still have questions to research, so I do need access to the library.”

“I see,” he said. “I thought I saw...”

Stephen looked at Rhaenys.

Rhaenys looked at Stephen.

“I honestly... Stephen was the one who knew what he was doing,” she said, after a moment. “Anything else... I seem to be without answers, at the moment. My father is completely mad, now, and Melisandre... took on more than she should have.”

“She was controlling the fires,” Stephen said, thoughtfully. “Not perfectly, but that seemed to be more a matter of practice than anything else.”

“So we can add that to the list of things I can evidently do,” she shook her head. “What was that crash? You weren't hurt?”

“Melisandre used the deaths to summon shadow servants, and I banished what I could until her death,” Wong said. “It would have been better if it had come quickly...”

“We had to be careful,” Stephen pointed out. “What would the results of her death before Tolliver's have been? I like not being possessed.”

“It didn't want to kill anyone,” Rhaenys said, remembering the creature's reactions. “Melisandre dragged a baby from its home, I suspect, and when she tried to hide it in human form- or was convinced she needed to anchor it in one. Imperfect control on both sides...”

“With tragic results,” Stephen agreed. “Sofia?”

“Reluctantly turned over the ritual,” Wong said, with a grin. “She agreed to come and visit the books, since she actually treats them with respect...”

“Well, gentlemen, if you are going to bicker, I am going to go and wash the soot from my hair,” Rhaenys said, strolling out.

“Next time could you perhaps trust my judgment?” Stephen asked, when Rhaenys was safely upstairs.

“Maybe,” Wong said, before pulling his book from a shelf and returning to it. But he was smiling while he said it.

~

He wasn't terribly surprised to find her in the bathtub. She had her knees folded so they tucked under her chin, and her hair fanned into a curtain as her head rose from underneath the surface.

“Mother told me stories of fire spirits, when I was a child,” she said, not opening her eyes. “She liked to tell stories, when the winds were howling like the dead and we were left in Dragonstone while my father did what he thought he needed to do.”

“She did?” he said, tilting his head. He wasn't wearing shoes, but his trousers would invariably get wet. He sat himself on the floor anyway, the boldly patterned tiles cool in the night air- she had a high open window he'd raised an eyebrow at, when he first saw it. That summer, though, it had proven delightful.

“They weren't... they weren't stories of happy creatures. Ifrits, they were...” she gave a low laugh. “Do you know, they were meant in some stories to come from the blood of a murdered person? I wonder, then, if that is what I am. The ghost of Rhaenys Targaryen, unaware of her own death.”

“I think Wong would have been able to piece that together, but we can ask,” Stephen mused, watching her open her eyes in shock. “Really, Rhae. Anything that happened, it was before we met. I've known the same woman the whole way through. I really can't be bothered if you aren't a normal human being.”

“...I'm trying to decide if that was sweet or not,” she said, tilting her head. “I think I'll err on the side of being grateful you aren't dead and consider it sweet.”

“This may, however, be a painful question,” Stephen said. “But everyone seems to think I should have already known. What happened to you, after I left?”

He could hear the faint sounds of wildlife, outside, and she barely seemed to breathe.

“I didn't know, when you left, I swear,” she said, before pausing. “You know, while I can appreciate the symbolism, may I at least put on a robe?”

“Will you keep deflecting if I let you?” he asked, not moving. “Because I can remove my clothes as well, if you want.”

“Not tonight,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Not because I'm angry with you, or... anything to do with you, it's... painful. What I am about to say. And I...”

He clambered his way up, and got her the fluffy red towel, waiting as she put on a rather spectacular orange silk robe and wrapped her hair in the towel. She sat carefully on the bed, legs tucked under her.

“Can I sit down?” he asked.

“I need to see your face,” she said, carefully. “Otherwise I might panic. I don't think... I know you have the right to be angry, but. I didn't want to tell you in a letter.”

“Just tell me,” he said, pulling over the seat to her vanity.

“I realized it about two weeks after you left,” she said, digging her hands into the comforter. “Or at least I suspected. Mya knew, but no one else. I was pregnant, and terrified, because I was afraid you would think I was telling you this to make you come home, and I didn't want you to hate me.”

“I wouldn't have,” he said, because he didn't think he would have.

He wasn't sure he would have come home straight away, he had to admit to himself. She'd have been fairly early in the pregnancy, and if he got the letter, he would have told himself he had months yet, that it would be better if the child's father had working hands.

But, there was no child, and Rhaenys would not have given away her child, no matter what.

“What happened?” he asked, and he wanted to move, but she said not to, she was pinning him with her eyes, shining with tears.

“I remember my stomach aching, and being afraid, and there was so much blood, I was nearly five months along,”she said, calmly. “I had told Tyrion the week before, and he'd been furious, but we were deciding how to deal with it, and I was going to write you, because everyone said after three months I wouldn't be likely to miscarry, and I wanted to wait to be sure and I was afraid, Stephen. If my father found out, if he was well enough, I wasn't sure, but it was all of my fears and I couldn't hold you back, I promised I wouldn't, and then I woke up and my sheets were bloody and there was so much pain I tried to scream and I couldn't, and Mya was away for the day and Carole stopped by, she wanted to hear about the script the studio was going to send me, where they'd lost an actress and wanted me to replace her, and I'd need to turn it down, if I was having a baby, and she wanted to see if it was good.” She paused, and looked at the white of the ceiling. “It wasn't.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “She screamed, when she saw me. Tyrion had come with her, and he called Serenei, because he didn't want me in the papers like that. They drove me to the hospital.”

He didn't quite know what to say, even when she added, very quietly, “He was a boy. I couldn't bear to name him.”

He went over anyway, and wrapped himself around her, tucking her head under his and just needing to remember that she'd survived this.

While he was half a world away.

“They said it happens sometimes, and I wanted y... I wanted to tell you, but anything I said sounded self-pitying and I knew it was the worst possible time even if I hadn't miscarried, and I told you to go,” she said against his chest. “But when you said Melisandre wasn't a fraud, and I realized that I might have actually died... there was nothing wrong with him, no sign of why, and I wondered if it was because...”

“We can find out, if it would help,” he said, and she let out a sob, the rough barking kind that hurt the lungs, and he pulled the towel from her hair. “We can work on figuring out what happened, and try and figure out what is going on with you.”

She snickered. “You really haven't changed all that much, have you? At least not in your sense of tact.”

“I'd like to think I changed in some ways,” he protested. “But no, not my sense of tact.”

“Is it wrong that I'm glad for that?” she asked, looking up at him. Her face was carefully blank, but he could see the tiniest hint of a smile trying to break free.

“Wicked woman,” he shot back, and she gave into a relieved smile.

“Yes, but you do so enjoy it,” she said.

They slept curled up, and if her ear was pressed up to hear his heartbeat throughout the night, he did not comment.

 


	10. Epilogue

April 9th, 1939

  
  


“So,” Rhaenys said, looking at her paperwork. “I have been quietly told that my contract will be purchased out.”

He froze. “Rhaenys, I'm sorry.”

“I'm not,” Rhaenys said, pinching her nose. “I had a good run, I'm sober and financially solvent for quite some time, as long as I'm practical about it. I can go to New York and do plays, I can go to school and study to go into academia, though that might be difficult. I can write stories. I do not have to keep working at an industry that is increasingly prone to treating me like an afterthought or a gimmick, and I don't have to do it knowing that I sacrificed who knows how many people's safety for my own path. Also, I am evidently not turning into some sort of fire demon,” she sighed at that. Wong had tried to eliminate the more alarming possibilities from his list first, by time and how easily she'd managed to hide her powers, even from herself. He had helped them confirm that she wasn't a demon, at least. He was fairly iffy on the topic of some sort of primal phoenix- it was fire-like, and did have records of coming to dying hosts, but Wong was fairly certain she'd have noticed that sort of hair-trigger power. Or, as he'd pointed out, that Stephen would have noticed the results of the first time they'd fought. The spirit of an old obscure goddess merged with Rhaenys was currently his favorite theory, given what they'd managed to salvage from Melisandre's work. Which was not as comforting as he seemed to think it should be, but they could better test it at Kamar-Taj.

She looked at him, great violet eyes surprisingly vulnerable. “I have my husband, a good and clever man who will support my dreams.”

“Of course,” he said, before sitting next to her. “What did Tyrion say?”

“He didn't come out and say it, but he wishes I'd never met you,” she said, smiling. “I wonder, sometimes, if he thought to marry me. His father would have been terribly torn about it, I suspect. I'd never have agreed- we disagree too fundamentally about everything, but he thinks he wants predictability and agent and talent marriages aren't terribly uncommon.”

He had to agree- though he was in fact very happy he'd met her. “I've been told that there is an opening to run the Sanctum in New York. It comes with a house, being, well, a Sanctum. It's in Greenwich Village, so not near the theaters.”

“Most theaters at least, St. Millay opened one there, it's quite lovely,” she said, putting down her paperwork and smiling. “And I did want to see Cafe Society, it sounds fascinating.” She nodded, thoughtfully. “How would this affect your hands?”

“I should be fine,” he said.

“Would it be alright if I didn't sell my home just yet?” she asked, twisting her hands. “I do... I made this place my home, our home, I'd like to think...”

“You did,” he said. “And it might be nice to have a safe place to go, while we are getting used to everything.” He paused. “Also, Serenei would murder me, hide the body, and comfort you if I made you.”

“I wouldn't let her, but it is nice to know I'm lucky in my friends,” she said, tossing her hair. Wong was walking in as she said it, looking curiously at one of the old gothic romances Rhaenys loved. Strange wasn't entirely certain if that was because he liked them as stories or if he was entertained by how very wrong they were.

He grinned. “What does that make me?”

“I married you, didn't I?” she mused, finger to her lips.

“She means that you are occasionally the most unfairly lucky person in the world,” Wong said, settling on the couch without looking up.

“Hmm, and here I thought you didn't like me,” Rhaenys teased. Her bubbly mood would probably fade soon, but the crash wouldn't be too terrible, this time. Explaining everything seemed to have soothed her.

“No, I was merely concerned that you might in fact be possessed by a monster, or at the least a major distraction for our mission,” Wong said.

Stephen winced, but Rhaenys merely tilted her head before shrugging. “That seems fair.”

Wong returned to his reading- if he'd ever stopped- and Stephen looked at her. “So you are alright with all of this?”

“It was a good run, but I'm an actress, I know that runs end, and quite frankly?” she paused. “I'm rather excited to see what happens next. Every good story seems to require a sequel, after all.”

 


End file.
